e 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


PS  3535  E3  A8  1905 


3  1822  01310  7107 


Ts 

3535 
.£3 


BY  MYRTLE  REED 

LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 

LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 

THE  SPINSTER  BOOK. 

LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

PICKABACK  SONGS. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  VICTORY. 

THE  MASTER'S  VIOLIN. 

THE  BOOK  OF  CLEVER  BEASTS. 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JACK-O'-LANTERN 


AT  THE  SIGN 
OP  THE  JACK 
0'  LANTERN 

Bv  Myrtle  J2eed 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  and  London 

Sbe  Kinicfeetbocfcer  press 
1905 


COPYRIGHT,    1905 
BY 


•Cbc  Knicfeerbocfcct  prcee,  Dew  ffiorft 


iii 

Contents 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

Contents 

1. 

THE  END  OF  THE  HONEYMOON 

I 

II. 

THE  DAY  AFTERWARD 

18 

III. 

THE  FIRST  CALLER 

35 

IV. 

FINANCES    

53 

V. 

MRS.  SMITHERS   .... 

68 

VI. 

THE  COMING  OF  ELAINE 

84 

VII. 

AN  UNINVITED  GUEST 

IOO 

VIII. 

MORE        

119 

IX. 

ANOTHER    

136 

X. 

STILL  MORE        .... 

154 

XI. 

MRS.  DODD'S  THIRD  HUSBAND 

i?3 

XII. 

HER  GIFT  TO  THE  WORLD   . 

191 

XIII. 

A  SENSITIVE  SOUL 

2IO 

XIV. 

MRS.  DODD'S  FIFTH  FATE    . 

226 

XV. 

TREASURE-TROVE 

243 

XVI. 

GOOD  FORTUNE  .... 

264 

XVII. 

THE   LADY  ELAINE   KNOWS   HER 

HEART    

282 

XVIII. 

UNCLE  EBENEEZER'S  DIARY  . 

299 

XIX. 

VARIOUS  DEPARTURES  . 

319 

XX. 

THE  LOVE  OF  ANOTHER  ELAINE    . 

338 

JEnb  of  tbe  Ibonc^moon 


IT  was  certainly  a  queer  house.  Even 
through  the  blinding  storm  they  could 
dist:nguish  its  eccentric  outlines  as  they  alight 
ed  t.om  the  stage.  Dorothy  laughed  happily, 
heedless  of  the  fact  that  her  husband's  um 
brella  was  dripping  down  her  neck.  "  It  's  a 
dear  old  place,"  she  cried;  "I  love  it  already  !" 

For  an  instant  a  flash  of  lightning  turned  the 
peculiar  windows  into  sheets  of  flame,  then 
all  was  dark  again.  Harlan's  answer  was 
drowned  by  a  crash  of  thunder  and  the  turn 
ing  of  the  heavy  wheels  on  the  gravelled  road. 

"Don't  stop,"  shouted  the  driver  ;  "I'll 
come  up  to-morrer  for  the  money.  Good  luck 
to  you  —  an'  the  Jack-o'-Lantern!  " 

"What   did   he   mean?"    asked   Dorothy, 

•>k<ng  out  her  wet  skirts,  when  they  were 
aiely  inside  the  door.  "Who's  got  a  Jack- 
o'-Lantern  ?" 


B  Queer 
twuse 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acft*o'*Xantern 


Ubc  fine 
of  tbe 


"  You  can  search  me,"  answered  Harlan, 
concisely,  fumbling  for  a  match.  "  I  suppose 
we  've  got  it.  Anyhow,  we  '11  have  a  look  at 
this  sepulchral  mansion  presently." 

His  deep  voice  echoed  and  re-echoed 
through  the  empty  rooms,  and  Dorothy 
laughed;  a  little  hysterically  this  time.  Match 
after  match  sputtered  and  failed.  "Could  n't 
have  got  much  wetter  if  I  'd  been  in  swim 
ming,"  he  grumbled.  "Here  goes  the  last 
one." 

By  the  uncertain  light  they  found  a  candle 
and  Harlan  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  "  It 
would  have  been  pleasant,  would  n't  it  ?  "  he 
went  on.  "  We  could  have  sat  on  the  stairs 
until  morning,  or  broken  our  admirable  necks 
in  falling  over  strange  furniture.  The  next 
thing  is  a  fire.  Wonder  where  my  distin 
guished  relative  kept  his  wood  ?  " 

Lighting  another  candle,  he  went  off  on  a 
tour  of  investigation,  leaving  Dorothy  alone. 

She  could  not  repress  a  shiver  as  she  glanced 
around  the  gloomy  room.  The  bare  loneli 
ness  of  the  place  was  accentuated  by  the  de 
pressing  furniture,  which  belonged  to  the  black 
walnut  and  haircloth  period.  On  the  marble- 
topped  table,  in  the  exact  centre  of  the  room, 


TTbe  But)  of  tbe  Ibone^moon 


was  a  red  plush  album,  flanked  on  one  side 
by  a  hideous  china  vase,  and  on  the  other  by 
a  basket  of  wax  flowers  under  a  glass  shade. 

Her  home-coming!  How  often  she  had 
dreamed  of  it,  never  for  a  moment  guessing 
that  it  might  be  like  this!  She  had  fancied  a 
little  house  in  a  suburb,  or  a  cosy  apartment 
in  the  city,  and  a  lump  came  into  her  throat 
as  her  air  castle  dissolved  into  utter  ruin.  She 
was  one  of  those  rare,  unhappy  women 
whose  natures  are  so  finely  attuned  to  beauty 
that  ugliness  hurts  like  physical  pain. 

She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  slippery  hair 
cloth  chairs,  facing  the  mantel  where  the 
single  candle  threw  its  tiny  light  afar.  Little 
by  little  the  room  crept  into  shadowy  relief— 
the  melodeon  in  the  corner,  the  what-not, 
with  its  burden  of  incongruous  ornaments,  and 
even  the  easel  bearing  the  crayon  portrait  of 
the  former  mistress  of  the  house,  becoming 
faintly  visible. 

Presently,  from  above  the  mantel,  appeared 
eyes.  Dorothy  felt  them  first,  then  looked 
up  affrighted.  From  the  darkness  they 
gleamed  upon  her  in  a  way  that  made  her 
heart  stand  still.  Human  undoubtedly,  but 
not  in  the  least  friendly,  they  were  the  eyes 


Uer 
Ijomeo 
Coming 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acK*o'*3Lantern 


tbc  fino 
of  tbe 


of  one  who  bitterly  resented  the  presence  of 
an  intruder.  The  light  flickered,  then  flamed 
up  once  more  and  brought  into  view  the  fea 
tures  that  belonged  with  the  eyes. 

Dorothy  would  have  screamed,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  lump  in  her  throat.  A  step  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  from  some  distant  part  of 
the  house,  accompanied  by  a  cheery,  familiar 
whistle.  Still  the  stern,  malicious  face  held 
her  spellbound,  and  even  when  Harlan  came 
in  with  his  load  of  wood,  she  could  not  turn 
away. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "we'll  start  a  fire  and 
hang  ourselves  up  to  dry." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Dorothy,  her  lips 
scarcely  moving. 

His  eyes  followed  hers.  "Uncle  Eben- 
eezer's  portrait,"  he  answered.  "Why,  Doro 
thy  Carr!  I  believe  you  're  scared  !  " 

"I  was  scared,"  she  admitted,  reluctantly, 
after  a  brief  silence,  smiling  a  little  at  her  own 
foolishness.  "It 's  so  dark  and  gloomy  in  here, 
and  you  were  gone  so  long " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  an  indistinct 
murmur,  but  she  still  shuddered  in  spite  of 
herself. 

"Funny   old   place,"   commented    Harlan, 


i£n&  of  tbe  Tbonepmoon 


kneeling  on  the  hearth  and  laying  kindlings, 
log-cabin  fashion,  in  the  fireplace.  "If  an 
architect  planned  it,  he  must  have  gone  crazy 
the  week  before  he  did  it." 

"Or  at  the  time.  Don't,  dear  —  wait  a 
minute.  Let 's  light  our  first  fire  together." 

He  smiled  as  she  slipped  to  her  knees  be 
side  him,  and  his  hand  held  hers  while  the 
blazing  splinter  set  the  pine  kindling  aflame. 
Quickly  the  whole  room  was  aglow  with 
light  and  warmth,  in  cheerful  contrast  to  the 
stormy  tumult  outside. 

"Somebody  said  once,"  observed  Harlan, 
as  they  drew  their  chairs  close  to  the  hearth, 
"that  four  feet  on  a  fender  are  sufficient  for 
happiness." 

"Depends  altogether  on  the  feet,"  rejoined 
Dorothy,  quickly.  "I  wouldn't  want  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  sitting  here  beside  me — no  disre 
spect  intended  to  your  relation,  as  such." 

"Poor  old  duck,"  said  Harlan,  kindly. 
"  Life  was  never  very  good  to  him,  and  Death 
took  away  the  only  thing  he  ever  loved. 

"Aunt  Rebecca,"  he  continued,  feeling  her 
unspoken  question.  "She  died  suddenly, 
when  they  had  been  married  only  three  or 
four  weeks." 


TTbeir 
first  fire 


Ht  tbc  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


of  tbe 


moon 


"Like  us,"  whispered  Dorothy,  for  the  first 
time  conscious  of  a  tenderness  toward  the  de 
parted  Mr.  Judson,  of  Judson  Centre. 

"It  was  four  weeks  ago  to-day,  wasn't 
it?"  he  mused,  instinctively  seeking  her 
hand. 

"I  thought  you'd  forgotten,"  she  smiled 
back  at  him.  "I  feel  like  an  old  married 
woman,  already." 

"You  don't  look  it,"  he  returned,  gently. 
Few  would  have  called  her  beautiful,  but  love 
brings  beauty  with  it,  and  Harlan  saw  an  ex 
quisite  loveliness  in  the  deep,  dark  eyes,  the 
brown  hair  that  rippled  and  shone  in  the  fire 
light,  the  smooth,  creamy  skin,  and  the  sensi 
tive  mouth  that  betrayed  every  passing  mood. 

"None  the  less,  I  am,"  she  went  on.  "  1  've 
grown  so  used  to  seeing  '  Mrs.  James  Harlan 
Carr '  on  my  visiting  cards  that  I  've  forgotten 
there  ever  was  such  a  person  as  '  Miss  Dorothy 
Locke,'  who  used  to  get  letters,  and  go  calling 
when  she  was  n't  too  busy,  and  have  things 
sent  to  her  when  she  had  the  money  to  buy 
them." 

"1  hope — "Harlan  stumbled  awkwardly 
over  the  words — "I  hope  you  '11  never  be 
sorry." 


JEnfc  of  tbe  feonegmooti 


"I  have  n't  been  yet,"  she  laughed,  "and 
it 's  four  whole  weeks.  Come,  let 's  go  on  an 
exploring  expedition.  I  'm  dry  both  inside 
and  out,  and  most  terribly  hungry." 

Each  took  a  candle  and  Harlan  led  the  way, 
in  and  out  of  unexpected  doors,  queer,  wind 
ing  passages,  and  lonely,  untenanted  rooms. 
Originally,  the  house  had  been  simple  enough 
in  structure,  but  wing  after  wing  had  been 
added  until  the  first  design,  if  it  could  be  dig 
nified  by  that  name,  had  been  wholly  ob 
scured.  From  each  room  branched  a  series 
of  apartments — a  sitting-room,  surrounded  by 
bedrooms,  each  of  which  contained  two  or 
sometimes  three  beds.  A  combined  kitchen 
and  dining-room  was  in  every  separate  wing, 
with  an  outside  door. 

"I  wonder,"  cried  Dorothy,  "if  we  've 
come  to  an  orphan  asylum!  " 

"Heaven  knows  what  we  've  come  to," 
muttered  Harlan.  "  You  know  I  never  was 
here  before." 

"  Did  Uncle  Ebeneezer  have  a  large  family  ?  " 

"Only  Aunt  Rebecca,  who  died  very  soon, 
as  I  told  you.  Mother  was  his  only  sister, 
and  I  her  only  child,  so  it  was  n't  on  our 
side." 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Cbe  £no 
of  tbe 


"Perhaps,"  observed  Dorothy,  "Aunt  Re 
becca  had  relations." 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five, "  counted  Harlan. 
' '  There  are  five  sets  of  apartments  on  this  side, 
and  three  on  the  other.  Let  's  go  upstairs." 

From  the  low  front  door  a  series  of  low 
windows  extended  across  the  house  on  each 
side,  abundantly  lighting  the  two  front  rooms, 
which  were  separated  by  the  wide  hall.  A 
high,  narrow  window  in  the  lower  hall,  seem 
ingly  with  no  purpose  whatever,  began  far 
above  the  low  door  and  ended  abruptly  at  the 
ceiling.  In  the  upper  hall,  a  similar  window 
began  at  the  floor  and  extended  upward  no 
higher  than  Harlan's  knees.  As  Dorothy  said, 
"  one  would  have  to  lie  down  to  look  out  of 
it,"  but  it  lighted  the  hall,  which,  after  all, 
was  the  main  thing. 

In  each  of  the  two  front  rooms,  upstairs, 
was  a  single  round  window,  too  high  for  one 
to  look  out  of  without  standing  on  a  chair, 
though  in  both  rooms  there  was  plenty  of  side 
light.  One  wing  on  each  side  of  the  house 
had  been  carried  up  to  the  second  story,  and 
the  arrangement  of  rooms  was  the  same  as 
below,  outside  stairways  leading  from  the 
kitchens  to  the  ground. 


TTbe  JBnb  of  tbe  Ibouesmoon 


"I  never  saw  so  many  beds  in  my  life," 
cried  Dorothy. 

"Seems  to  be  a  perfect  Bedlam,"  rejoined 
Harlan,  making  a  poor  attempt  at  a  joke  and 
laughing  mirthlessly.  In  his  heart  he  began 
to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  marrying  on  six  hun 
dred  dollars,  an  unexplored  heirloom  in  Judson 
Centre,  and  an  overweening  desire  to  write 
books. 

For  the  first  time,  his  temerity  appeared  to 
him  in  its  proper  colours.  He  had  been  a 
space  writer  and  Dorothy  the  private  secre 
tary  of  a  Personage,  when  they  met,  in  the 
dreary  basement  dining-room  of  a  New  York 
boarding-house,  and  speedily  fell  in  love. 
Shortly  afterward,  when  Harlan  received  a  let 
ter  which  contained  a  key,  and  announced 
that  Mr.  Judson's  house,  fully  furnished,  had 
been  bequeathed  to  his  nephew,  they  had 
light-heartedly  embarked  upon  matrimony 
with  no  fears  for  the  future. 

Two  hundred  dollars  had  been  spent  upon 
a  very  modest  honeymoon,  and  the  three 
hundred  and  ninety-seven  dollars  and  twenty- 
three  cents  remaining,  as  Harlan  had  ac 
curately  calculated,  seemed  pitifully  small. 
Perplexity,  doubt,  and  foreboding  were  plainly 


t>is 

•Cemcritv; 


Ht  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acft*o'*%antern 


of  tbe 
1xmcv= 
moon 


written  on  his  face,  when  Dorothy  turned  to 
him. 

"  Is  n't  it  perfectly  lovely,"  she  asked,  "for 
us  to  have  this  nice,  quiet  place  all  to  our 
selves,  where  you  can  write  your  book  ?" 

Woman-like,  she  had  instantly  touched  the 
right  chord,  and  the  clouds  vanished. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  eagerly.  "Oh,  Dorothy, 
do  you  think  I  can  really  write  it  ?" 

"Write  it,"  she  repeated;  "  why,  you  dear, 
funny  goose,  you  can  write  a  better  book  than 
anybody  has  ever  written  yet,  and  I  know  you 
can!  By  next  week  we  '11  be  settled  here  and 
you  can  get  down  to  work.  I  '11  help  you, 
too,"  she  added,  generously.  "  If  you  '11  buy 
me  a  typewriter,  I  can  copy  the  whole  book 
for  you." 

"Of  course  I  '11  buy  you  a  typewriter. 
We  '11  send  for  it  to-morrow.  How  much 
does  a  nice  one  cost?" 

"The  kind  1  like,"  she  explained,  "costs  a 
hundred  dollars  without  the  stand.  I  don't 
need  the  stand — we  can  find  a  table  some 
where  that  will  do." 

"Two  hundred  and  ninety-seven  dollars 
and  twenty-three  cents,"  breathed  Harlan, 
unconsciously. 


ZIbe  £n&  of  tbe  Tbonegmoon 


"No,  only  a   hundred    dollars,"  corrected       curls 
Dorothy.       "I    don't   care   to   have   it   silver 
mounted." 

"  I  'd  buy  you  a  gold  one  if  you  wanted  it," 
stammered  Harlan,  in  some  confusion. 

"Not  now,"  she  returned,  serenely.  "Wait 
till  the  book  is  done." 

Visions  of  fame  and  fortune  appeared  before 
his  troubled  eyes  and  set  his  soul  alight  with 
high  ambition.  The  candle  in  his  hand  burned 
unsteadily  and  dripped  tallow,  unheeded. 
"Come,"  said  Dorothy,  gently,  "let  's  go 
downstairs  again." 

An  open  door  revealed  a  tortuous  stairway 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  descending  mysteri 
ously  into  cavernous  gloom.  "  Let 's  go  down 
here,"  she  continued.  "  I  love  curly  stairs." 

"These  are  kinky  enough  to  please  even 
your  refined  fancy,"  laughed  Harlan.  "It  re 
minds  me  of  travelling  in  the  West,  where  you 
look  out  of  the  window  and  see  your  engine 
on  the  track  beside  you,  going  the  other  way." 

"This  must  be  the  kitchen,"  said  Dorothy, 
when  the  stairs  finally  ceased.  "  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer  appears  to  have  had  a  pronounced  fancy 
for  kitchens." 

"Here's    another    wing,"    added    Harlan, 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


Ube  EnS 
of  tbe 


opening  the  back  door.  "Sitting-room,  bed 
room,  and — my  soul  and  body!  It's  another 
kitchen! " 

"  Any  more  beds  ?  "  queried  Dorothy,  peer 
ing  into  the  darkness.  "  We  can  't  keep  house 
unless  we  can  find  more  beds." 

"Only  one  more.  I  guess  we've  come 
down  to  bed  rock  at  last." 

"  In  other  words,  the  cradle,"  she  observed, 
pulling  a  little  old-fashioned  trundle  bed  out 
into  the  light. 

"  Oh,  what  a  joke!  "  cried  Harlan.  "That's 
worth  three  dollars  in  the  office  of  any  funny 
paper  in  New  York!  " 

"Sell  it,"  commanded  Dorothy,  inspired  by 
the  prospect  of  wealth,  ' '  and  I  '11  give  you  fifty 
cents  for  your  commission." 

Outside,  the  storm  still  raged  and  the  old 
house  shook  and  creaked  in  the  blast.  The 
rain  swirled  furiously  against  the  windows, 
and  a  swift  rush  of  hailstones  beat  a  fierce 
tattoo  on  the  roof.  Built  on  the  summit  of  a 
hill  and  with  only  a  few  trees  near  it,  the 
Judson  mansion  was  but  poorly  protected 
from  the  elements. 

None  the  less,  there  was  a  sense  of  warmth 
and  comfort  inside.  "  Let 's  build  a  fire  in  the 


]£no  of  tbe  Ibonepmoon 


kitchen, "  suggested  Dorothy,  ' '  and  then  we  '11 
try  to  find  something  to  eat." 

"Which  kitchen?"  asked  Harlan. 

"  Any  old  kitchen.  The  one  the  back  stairs 
end  in,  I  guess.  It  seems  to  be  the  principal 
one  of  the  set." 

Harlan  brought  more  wood  and  Dorothy 
watched  him  build  the  fire  with  a  sense  that 
a  god-like  being  was  here  put  to  base  uses. 
Hampered  in  his  log-cabin  design  by  the  limi 
tations  of  the  fire  box,  he  handled  the  kindlings 
awkwardly,  got  a  splinter  into  his  thumb,  said 
something  under  his  breath  which  was  not 
meant  for  his  wife  to  hear,  and  powdered  his 
linen  with  soot  from  the  stove  pipe.  At 
length,  however,  a  respectable  fire  was  started. 

"Now,"  he  asked,  "  what  shall  I  do  next?" 

"Wind  all  the  clocks.  I  can't  endure  a 
dead  clock.  While  you  're  doing  it,  I  '11  get 
out  the  remnants  of  our  lunch  and  see  what 
there  is  in  the  pantry  that  is  still  edible." 

In  the  lunch  basket  which  the  erratic  rami 
fications  of  the  road  leading  to  Judson  Centre 
had  obliged  them  to  carry,  there  was  still,  for 
tunately,  a  supply  of  sandwiches  and  fruit.  A 
hasty  search  through  the  nearest  pantry  reveal 
ed  jelly,  marmalade,  and  pickles,  a  box  of  musty 


Bng  QIt» 
Kitchen 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Ube  £nfc 
of  tbe 

twne?- 
moon 


crackers  and  a  canister  of  tea.  When  Harlan 
came  back,  Dorothy  had  the  kitchen  table  set 
for  two,  with  a  lighted  candle  dispensing 
odorous  good  cheer  from  the  centre  of  it,  and 
the  tea  kettle  singing  merrily  over  the  fire. 

"Seems  like  home,  does  n't  it  ?  "  he  asked, 
pleasantly  imbued  with  the  realisation  of  the 
home-making  quality  in  Dorothy.  Certain 
rare  women  with  this  gift  take  their  atmos 
phere  with  them  wherever  they  go. 

"To-morrow,"  he  went  on,  "I'll  go  into 
the  village  and  buy  more  things  to  eat." 

"  The  ruling  passion,"  she  smiled.  "  It 's — 
what's  that !  " 

Clear  and  high  above  the  sound  of  the 
storm  came  an  imperious  "  Me-ow!  " 

"It's  a  cat,"  said  Harlan.  "You  don't 
suppose  the  poor  thing  is  shut  up  anywhere, 
do  you?" 

"If  it  had  been,  we'd  have  found  it. 
We  've  opened  every  door  in  the  house,  I  'm 
sure.  It  must  be  outside." 

"Me-ow!  Me-ow!  Me-ow!"  The  voice 
was  not  pleading ;  it  was  rather  a  command,  a 
challenge. 

"  Kitty,  kitty,  kitty,"  she  called.  "  Where 
are  you,  kitty  ?  " 


ZIbe  JEno  of  tbe  Tbonepmoon 


Harlan  opened  the  outside  door,  and  in 
rushed  a  huge  black  cat,  with  the  air  of  one 
returning  home  after  a  long  absence. 

"Poor  kitty,"  said  Dorothy,  kindly,  stoop 
ing  to  stroke  the  sable  visitor,  who  instinc 
tively  dodged  the  caress,  and  then  scratched 
her  hand. 

"  The  ugly  brute!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Don't 
touch  him,  Harlan." 

Throughout  the  meal  the  cat  sat  at  a  re 
spectful  distance,  with  his  greenish  yellow 
eyes  fixed  unwaveringly  upon  them.  He  was 
entirely  black,  save  for  a  white  patch  under 
his  chin,  which,  in  the  half-light,  carried  with 
it  an  uncanny  suggestion  of  a  shirt  front. 
Dorothy  at  length  became  restless  under  the 
calm  scrutiny. 

"I  don't  like  him,"  she  said.    "Put  him  out." 

"Thought  you  liked  cats,"  remarked  Har 
lan,  reaching  for  another  sandwich. 

"I  do,  but  I  don't  like  this  one.  Please  put 
him  out." 

"What,  in  all  this  storm  ?    He  '11  get  wet." 

"  He  was  n't  wet  when  he  came  in,"  objec 
ted  Dorothy.  ' '  He  must  have  some  warm,  dry 
place  of  his  own  outside." 

"Come,  kitty,"  said  Harlan,  pleasantly. 


"Rlttg 


i6 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


Cbc  fint* 
of  tbe 


"Kitty"  merely  blinked,  and  Harlan  rose. 

"  Come,  kitty." 

With  the  characteristic  independence  of 
cats,  the  visitor  yawned.  The  conversation 
evidently  bored  him. 

"Come,  kitty,"  said  Harlan,  more  firmly, 
with  a  low  swoop  of  his  arm.  The  cat 
arched  his  back,  erected  an  enlarged  tail,  and 
hissed  threateningly.  In  a  dignified  but  effec 
tive  manner,  he  eluded  all  attempts  to  capture 
him,  even  avoiding  Dorothy  and  her  broom. 

"There's  something  more  or  less  imperial 
about  him,"  she  remarked,  wiping  her  flushed 
cheeks,  when  they  had  finally  decided  not  to 
put  the  cat  out.  "As  long  as  he's  adopted 
us,  we  '11  have  to  keep  him.  What  shall  we 
name  him  ?" 

"  Claudius  Tiberius, "  answered  Harlan.  ' '  It 
suits  him  down  to  the  ground." 

"His  first  name  is  certainly  appropriate," 
laughed  Dorothy,  with  a  rueful  glance  at  her 
scratched  hand.  Making  the  best  of  a  bad 
bargain,  she  spread  an  old  grey  shawl,  nicely 
folded,  on  the  floor  by  the  stove,  and  re 
quested  Claudius  Tiberius  to  recline  upon  it, 
but  he  persistently  ignored  the  invitation. 

"This  is  jolly  enough,"  said  Harlan.      "A 


Bno  of  tbe  Ibonepmoon 


cosy  little  supper  in  our  own  house,  with  a 
gale  blowing  outside,  the  tea  kettle  singing 
over  the  fire,  and  a  cat  purring  on  the  hearth." 

"Have  you  heard  Claudius  purr?"  asked 
Dorothy,  idly. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  I  have  n't.  Per 
haps  something  is  wrong  with  his  purrer. 
We  '11  fix  him  to-morrow." 

From  a  remote  part  of  the  house  came 
twelve  faint,  silvery  tones.  The  kitchen  clock 
struck  next,  with  short,  quick  strokes,  fol 
lowed  immediately  by  a  casual  record  of 
the  hour  from  the  clock  on  the  mantel  be 
neath  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  portrait.  Then  the 
grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  boomed  out 
twelve,  solemn  funereal  chimes.  Afterward, 
the  silence  seemed  acute. 

"The  end  of  the  honeymoon,"  said  Doro 
thy,  a  little  sadly,  with  a  quick,  inquiring  look 
at  her  husband. 

"The  end  of  the  honeymoon!"  repeated 
Harlan,  gathering  her  into  his  arms.  "  To 
morrow,  life  begins!" 

Several  hours  later,  Dorothy  awoke  from  a 
dreamless  sleep  to  wonder  whether  life  was 
any  different  from  a  honeymoon,  and  if  so, 
how  and  why. 


tEwelve 
©'  Clock 


i8 


Ttbc  S)as 
Bftcrwarti 


II 


Hfterwarfc 

BY  the  pitiless  light  of  early  morning,  the 
house  was  even  uglier  than  at  night. 
With  an  irreverence  essentially  modern,  Doro 
thy  decided,  while  she  was  dressing,  to  have 
all  the  furniture  taken  out  into  the  back  yard, 
where  she  could  look  it  over  at  her  leisure. 
She  would  make  a  bonfire  of  most  of  it,  or, 
better  yet,  have  it  cut  into  wood  for  the  fire 
place.  Thus  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  cumbrous 
bequest  might  be  quickly  transformed  into 
comfort. 

"And,"  thought  Dorothy,  "I  '11  take  down 
that  hideous  portrait  over  the  mantel  before 
I  'm  a  day  older." 

But  when  she  broached  the  subject  to  Har- 
lan,  she  found  him  unresponsive  and  some 
what  disinclined  to  interfere  with  the  existing 
order  of  things.  "  We  '11  be  here  only  for  the 
Summer,"  he  said,  "so  what  's  the  use  of 


TTbe 


Hfterwarfc 


monkeying  with  the  furniture  and  burning  up 
fifty  or  sixty  beds  ?  There  's  plenty  of  wood 
in  the  cellar." 

"I  don't  like  the  furniture,"  she  pouted. 

"My  dear,"  said  Harlan,  with  patronising 
kindness,  "as  you  grow  older,  you  '11  find  lots 
of  things  on  the  planet  which  you  don't  like. 
Moreover,  it  '11  be  quite  out  of  your  power  to 
cremate  'em,  and  it  's  just  as  well  to  begin 
adjusting  yourself  now." 

This  bit  of  philosophy  irritated  Mrs.  Carr 
unbearably.  "Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  de 
manded,  with  rising  temper,  "that  you  won't 
do  as  I  ask  you  to?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  inquired  Harlan, 
wickedly,  in  exact  imitation  of  her  manner, 
"that  you  won't  do  as  I  ask  you  to?  Four 
weeks  ago  yesterday,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
you  promised  to  obey  me!  " 

"Don't  remind  me  of  what  I  'm  ashamed 
of !  "  flashed  Dorothy.  "  If  I  'd  known  what 
a  brute  you  were,  I  'd  never  have  married 
you!  You  may  be  sure  of  that!  " 

Claudius  Tiberius  insinuated  himself  be 
tween  Harlan's  feet  and  rubbed  against  his 
trousers,  leaving  a  thin  film  of  black  fur  in  his 
wake.  Being  fastidious  about  his  personal 


HJBrute 


Bt  tbe 


of  tbe  3acfe*o'=%antern 


tlbe  S>ag 
flfterwarb 


appearance,  Harlan  kicked  Claudius  Tiberius 
vigorously,  grabbed  his  hat  and  went  out, 
slamming  the  door,  and  whistling  with  an 
exaggerated  cheerfulness. 

"Brute!"  The  word  rankled  deeply  as  he 
went  downhill  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
whistling  determinedly.  So  Dorothy  was 
sorry  she  had  married  him !  After  all  he  'd 
done  for  her,  too.  Giving  up  a  good  position 
in  New  York,  taking  her  halfway  around  the 
world  on  a  honeymoon,  and  bringing  her  to  a 
magnificent  country  residence  in  a  fashionable 
locality  for  the  Summer! 

Safely  screened  by  the  hill,  he  turned  back 
to  look  at  the  "magnificent  country  resi 
dence,"  then  swore  softly  under  his  breath,  as, 
for  the  first  time,  he  took  in  the  full  meaning 
of  the  eccentric  architecture. 

Perched  high  upon  the  hill,  with  interven 
ing  shrubbery  carefully  cut  down,  the  Judson 
mansion  was  not  one  to  inspire  confidence  in 
its  possessor.  Outwardly,  it  was  grey  and 
weather-worn,  with  the  shingles  dropping  off 
in  places.  At  the  sides,  the  rambling  wings 
and  outside  stairways,  branching  off  into 
space,  conveyed  the  impression  that  the  house 
had  been  recently  subjected  to  a  powerful  in- 


H>as  Hfterwarfc 


fluence  of  the  centrifugal  sort.     But  worst  of    tibe  senu 
all  was  the  front  elevation,  with  its  two  round    Jl*nce  °f 

a  ijUiiiaH 

windows,  its  narrow,  long  window  in  the 
centre,  and  the  low  windows  on  either  side 
of  the  front  door  —  the  grinning,  distorted 
semblance  of  a  human  face. 

The  bare,  uncurtained  windows  loomed  up 
boldly  in  the  searching  sunlight,  which  spared 
nothing.  The  blue  smoke  rising  from  the 
kitchen  chimney  appeared  strangely  like  a 
plume  streaming  out  from  the  rear.  Harlan 
noted,  too,  that  the  railing  of  the  narrow 
porch  extended  almost  entirely  across  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  remembered,  dimly, 
that  they  had  found  the  steps  at  one  side  of 
the  porch  the  night  before.  Not  a  single  un 
pleasant  detail  was  in  any  way  hidden,  and 
he  clutched  instinctively  at  a  tree  as  he 
realised  that  the  supports  of  the  railing 
were  cunningly  arranged  to  look  like  huge 
teeth. 

"No  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself  "that  the 
stage  driver  called  it  the  Jack-o'-Lantern! 
That's  exactly  what  it  is!  Why  didn't  he 
paint  it  yellow  and  be  done  with  it  ?  The 
old  devil!"  The  last  disrespectful  allusion, 
of  course,  being  meant  for  Uncle  Ebeneezer. 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  ?acfe  o'  Xantern 


tlbe  JDav 
Bfterwarl* 


"  Poor  Dorothy,"  he  thought  again.  "  I'll 
burn  the  whole  thing,  and  she  shall  put  every 
blamed  crib  into  the  purifying  flames.  It's 
mine,  and  I  can  do  what  I  please  with  it. 
We  '11  go  away  to-morrow,  we  '11  go " 

Where  could  they  go,  with  less  than  four 
hundred  dollars  ?  Especially  when  one  hun 
dred  of  it  was  promised  for  a  typewriter? 
Harlan  had  parted  with  his  managing  editor 
on  terms  of  great  dignity,  announcing  that 
he  had  forsworn  journalism  and  would  here 
after  devote  himself  to  literature.  The  editor 
had  remarked,  somewhat  cynically,  that  it  was 
a  better  day  for  journalism  than  for  literature, 
the  fine,  inner  meaning  of  the  retort  not  hav 
ing  been  fully  evident  to  Harlan  until  he  was 
some  three  squares  away  from  the  office. 

Much  chastened  in  spirit,  and  fully  ready  to 
accept  his  wife's  estimate  of  him,  he  went  on 
downhill  into  Judson  Centre. 

It  was  the  usual  small  town,  the  post-office, 
grocery,  meat  market,  and  general  loafing-place 
being  combined  under  one  roof.  Near  by  was 
the  blacksmith  shop,  and  across  from  it  was  the 
inevitable  saloon.  Far  up  in  the  hills  was  the 
Judson  Centre  Sanitarium,  a  worthy  institu 
tion  of  some  years  standing,  where  every 


TTbe 


Bfterwarfc 


human  ailment  from  tuberculosis  to  fits  was 
more  or  less  successfully  treated. 

Upon  the  inmates  of  the  sanitarium  the  in 
habitants  of  Judson  Centre  lived,  both  materi 
ally  and  mentally.  Few  of  them  had  ever 
been  nearer  to  it  than  the  back  door,  but  tales 
of  dark  doings  were  widely  prevalent  through 
out  the  community,  and  mothers  were  wont 
to  frighten  their  young  offspring  into  obedi 
ence  with  threats  of  the  "san-tor-i-yum." 

"Now  what  do  you  reckon  ails  him?" 
asked  the  blacksmith  of  the  stage-driver,  as 
Harlan  went  into  the  village  store. 

"Wouldn't  reckon  nothin'  ailed  him  to 
look  at  him,  would  you  ?"  queried  the  driver, 
in  reply. 

Indeed,  no  one  looking  at  Mr.  Carr  would 
have  suspected  him  of  an  "ailment."  He  was 
tall  and  broad-shouldered  and  well  set  up, 
with  clear  grey  eyes  and  a  rosy,  smooth- 
shaven,  boyish  face  which  had  given  him 
the  nickname  of  "The  Cherub"  all  along 
Newspaper  Row.  In  his  bearing  there  was 
a  suggestion  of  boundless  energy,  which 
needed  only  proper  direction  to  accomplish 
wonders. 

"You  can't  never  tell,"  continued  the  driver, 


TTbe 
Cberub 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tlbe  $acfe*o'*%antern 


"Cbe  JDas 
Hfterwart 


shifting  his  quid.  "Now,  I  've  took  folks  up 
there  goin'  on  ten  year  now,  an'  some  I  've 
took  up  looked  considerable  more  healthy  than 
I  be  when  I  took  'em  up.  Comin'  back,  how- 
sumever,  it  was  different.  One  young  feller 
rode  up  with  me  in  the  rain  one  night,  a- 
singin'  an'  a-whistlin'  to  beat  the  band,  an' 
when  I  took  him  back,  a  month  or  so  arter- 
ward,  he  had  a  striped  nurse  on  one  side  of 
him  an'  a  doctor  on  t'  other,  an'  was  wearin' 
a  shawl.  Could  n't  hardly  set  up,  but  he  was 
a-tryin'  to  joke  just  the  same.  '  Hank,'  says 
he,  when  we  got  a  little  way  off  from  the 
place,  'my  book  of  life  has  been  edited  by  the 
librarians  an'  the  entire  appendix  removed.' 
Them  's  his  very  words.  'An','  says  he,  'the 
time  to  have  the  appendix  took  out  is  before 
it  does  much  of  anythin'  to  your  table  of 
contents.' 

"The  doctor  shut  him  up  then,  an'  I  did  n't 
hear  no  more,  but  I  remembered  the  language, 
an'  arterwards,  when  I  got  a  chanst,  I  looked 
in  the  school-teacher's  dictionary.  It  said  as 
how  the  appendix  was  sunthin'  appended  or 
added  to,  but  I  could  n't  get  no  more  about  it. 
I  've  hearn  tell  of  a  'devil  child '  with  a  tail  to 
it  what  was  travellin'  with  the  circus  one  year, 


S)ag  Httenvarfc  25 


an'  I  've  surmised  as  how  mebbe  a  tail  had 
begun  to  grow  on  this  young  feller  an'  it  was 
took  off." 

"You  don't  say  !  "  ejaculated  the  blacksmith. 

By  reason  of  his  professional  connection 
with  the  sanitarium,  Mr.  Henry  Blake  was,  in 
a  sense,  the  oracle  of  Judson  Centre,  and  he 
enjoyed  his  proud  distinction  to  the  full.  Or 
dinarily,  he  was  taciturn,  but  the  present  hour 
found  him  in  a  conversational  mood. 

"He  's  married,"  he  went  on,  returning  to 
the  original  subject.  "  I  took  him  an'  his  wife 
up  to  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  last  night.  Come 
in  on  the  nine  forty-seven  from  the  Junction. 
Reckon  they  're  goin'  to  stay  a  spell,  'cause 
they  Ve  got  trunks  —  one  of  a  reasonable  size, 
an'  'nother  that  looks  like  a  dog-house.  Box, 
too,  that  's  got  lead  in  it." 

'  '  Books,  maybe,  "  suggested  the  blacksmith, 
with  unexpected  discernment.  "School 
teacher  boarded  to  our  house  wunst  an'  she 
had  most  a  car-load  of  'em.  Educated  folks 
has  to  have  books  to  keep  from  losin'  their 
education." 

"Don't  take  much  stock  in  it  myself,"  re 
marked  the  driver.  "It  spiles  most  folks. 
As  soon  as  they  get  some,  they  begin  to  pine 


26 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  ZTbe  3ncfe*o'*%antern 


Bfterwarfc 


an'  hanker  for  more.  I  knowed  a  feller  wunst 
that  begun  with  one  book  dropped  on  the 
road  near  the  sanitarium,  an'  he  never  stopped 
till  he  was  plum  through  college.  An'  a 
woman  up  there  sent  my  darter  a  book  wunst, 
an'  I  took  it  right  back  to  her.  'My  darter  's 
got  a  book,'  says  I,  'an'  she  ain't  a-needin'  of 
no  duplicates.  Keep  it,'  says  I,  'fer  some 
body  that  ain't  got  no  book." 

"Do  you  reckon,"  asked  the  blacksmith, 
after  a  long  silence,  "that  they  're  goin'  to  live 
in  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  ?" 

"  I  ain't  a-sayin',"  answered  Mr.  Blake,  cau 
tiously.  "They 're  educated,  an' there  's  no 
tellin'  what  educated  folks  is  goin'  to  do. 
This  young  lady,  now,  that  come  up  with 
him  last  night,  she  said  it  was  'a  dear  old 
place  an'  she  loved  it  a'ready.'  Them  's  her 
very  words! " 

"Do  tell!" 

"That's  c'rrect,  an'  as  I  said  before,  when 
you  're  dealin'  with  educated  folks,  you  're 
swimmin'  in  deep  water  with  the  shore  clean 
outo'  sight.  Education  was  what  ailed  him." 
By  a  careless  nod  Mr.  Blake  indicated  the  Jack- 
o'-Lantern,  which  could  be  seen  from  the  main 
thoroughfare  of  Judson  Centre. 


Ube 


HfterwarD 


"I've  hearn,"  he  went  on,  taking  a  fresh 
bite  from  his  morning  purchase  of  "plug," 
"  that  he  had  one  hull  room  mighty  nigh  plum 
full  o'  nothin'  but  books,  an'  there  was  always 
more  comin'  by  freight  an'  express  an'  through 
the  post-office.  It's  all  on  account  o'  them 
books  that  he 's  made  the  front  o'  his  house  into 
what  it  is.  My  wife  had  a  paper  book  wunst, 
a-tellin'  '  How  to  Transfer  a  Hopeless  Exterior,' 
with  pictures  of  houses  in  it  like  they  be  here  an' 
more  arter  they  'd  been  transferred.  You  bet  I 
burnt  it  while  she  was  gone  to  sewin'  circle,  an' 
there  ain't  no  book  come  into  my  house  since." 

Mr.  Blake  spoke  with  the  virtuous  air  of 
one  who  has  protected  his  home  from  con 
tamination.  Indeed,  as  he  had  often  said 
before,  "you  can't  never  tell  what  folks '11  do 
when  books  gets  a  holt  of  'em." 

"Do  you  reckon,"  asked  the  blacksmith, 
"  that  there  '11  be  company  ?  " 

"Company,"  snickered  Mr.  Blake,  "oh,  my 
Lord,  yes!  A  little  thing  like  death  ain't  never 
going  to  keep  company  away.  Ain't  you 
never  hearn  as  how  misery  loves  company? 
The  more  miserable  you  are  the  more  com 
pany  you  '11  have,  an'  vice  versey,  etcetery  an' 
the  same." 


Company 


28 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*%antern 


Ube  Dag 
Hfterwarfc 


"  Hush!  "  warned  the  blacksmith,  in  a  harsh 
whisper.  "  He  's  a-comin'  !  " 

"City  feller,"  grumbled  Mr.  Blake,  affect 
ing  not  to  see. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Harlan,  pleasantly, 
though  not  without  an  air  of  condescension. 
"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  the  stage- 
driver  ?  " 

"That's  me,"  grunted  Mr.  Blake.  "Be 
you  wantin'  anythin'  ?" 

"Only  to  pay  you  for  taking  us  up  to  the 
house  last  night,  and  to  arrange  about  our 
trunks.  Can  you  deliver  them  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-runnin'  of  no  livery,  but  I  can  take 
'em  up,  if  that 's  what  you  're  wantin'." 

"Exactly,"  said  Harlan,  "and  the  box,  too, 
if  you  will.  And  the  things  I  've  just  ordered 
at  the  grocery — can  you  bring  them,  too  ?" 

Mr.  Blake  nodded  helplessly,  and  the  black 
smith  gazed  at  Harlan,  open-mouthed,  as  he 
started  uphill.  "  Must  sure  have  a  ailment," 
he  commented,  "  but  I  hear  tell,  Hank,  that  in 
the  city  they  never  carry  nothin'  round  with 
'em  but  perhaps  an  umbrell.  Everythin'  else 
they  have  'sent.' ' 

"Reckon  it's  true  enough.  I  took  a  ham 
wunst  up  to  the  sanitarium  for  a  young  sprig 


Hfterwarfc 


of  a  doctor  that  was  too  proud  to  carry  it  him 
self.  He  was  goin'  that  way,  too — walkin'  up 
to  save  money — so  I  charged  him  for  carryin' 
up  the  ham  just  what  I  'd  have  took  both  for. 
'Pigs  is  high,'  I  told  him,  'same  price  for 
one  as  for  'nother,'  but  he  did  n't  pay  no  at 
tention  to  it  an'  never  raised  no  kick  about  the 
price.  Thinkin'  'bout  sunthin'  else,  most  likely 
— most  of  'em  are." 

Harlan,  most  assuredly,  was  "thinkin'  'bout 
sunthin'  else."  In  fact,  he  was  possessed  by 
portentous  uneasiness.  There  was  well-de 
fined  doubt  in  his  mind  regarding  his  recep 
tion  at  the  Jack-o'-Lantern.  Dorothy's  parting 
words  had  been  plain — almost  to  the  point  of 
rudeness,  he  reflected,  unhappily,  and  he  was 
not  sure  that  "a  brute"  would  be  allowed  in 
her  presence  again. 

The  bare,  uncurtained  windows  gave  no 
sign  of  human  occupancy.  Perhaps  she  had 
left  him!  Then  his  reason  came  to  the  rescue 
—  there  was  no  way  for  her  to  go  but  down 
hill,  and  he  would  certainly  have  seen  her  had 
she  taken  that  path. 

When  he  entered  the  yard,  he  smelled 
smoke,  and  ran  wildly  into  the  house.  A 
hasty  search  through  all  the  rooms  revealed 


Smofcc 


3° 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*»o'*Xantern 


Hfterwart 


nothing  —  even  Dorothy  had  disappeared. 
From  the  kitchen  window,  he  saw  her  in  the 
back  yard,  poking  idly  through  a  heap  of 
smouldering  rubbish  with  an  old  broomstick. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  demanded, 
breathlessly,  before  she  knew  he  was  near 
her. 

Dorothy  turned,  disguising  her  sudden  start 
by  a  toss  of  her  head.  "Oh,"  she  said,  coolly, 
"it's  you,  is  it?" 

Harlan  bit  his  lips  and  his  eyes  laughed.  "  I 
say,  Dorothy,"  he  began,  awkwardly;  "  I  was 
rather  a  beast,  was  n't  I  ?" 

"Of  course,"  she  returned,  in  a  small,  un 
natural  voice,  still  poking  through  the  ruins. 
"I  told  you  so,  did  n'fl?" 

"I  did  n't  believe  you  at  the  time,"  Harlan 
went  on,  eager  to  make  amends,  "but  I  do 
now." 

"That  's  good."  Mrs.  Carr's  tone  was  not 
at  all  reassuring. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  then  Har 
lan,  putting  aside  his  obstinate  pride,  said  the 
simple  sentence  which  men  of  all  ages  have 
found  it  hardest  to  say — perhaps  because  it  is 
the  sign  of  utter  masculine  abasement.  "  I'm 
sorry,  dear,  will  you  forgive  me?" 


Bap  HfterwarD  31 


In  a  moment,  she  was  in  his  arms.  "It  *  n  tbe 
was  partly  my  fault,"  she  admitted,  gener- 
ously,  from  the  depths  of  his  coat  collar.  "  I 
think  there  must  be  something  in  the  atmo 
sphere  of  the  house.  We  never  quarrelled 
before." 

"And  we  never  will  again,"  answered 
Harlan,  confidently.  "What  have  you  been 
burning  ?" 

"It  was  a  mattress,"  whispered  Dorothy, 
much  ashamed.  "I  tried  to  get  a  bed  out, 
but  it  was  too  heavy." 

"You  funny,  funny  girl!  How  did  you 
ever  get  a  mattress  out,  all  alone  ?  " 

"Dragged  it  to  an  upper  window  and 
dumped  it,"  she  explained,  blushing,  "then 
came  down  and  dragged  it  some  more. 
Claudius  Tiberius  did  n't  like  to  have  me  do 
it." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  laughed  Harlan.  "That 
is,"  he  added  hastily,  "he  could  n't  have 
been  pleased  to  see  you  doing  it  all  by  your 
self.  Anybody  would  love  to  see  a  mattress 
burn." 

"Shall  we  get  some  more?  There  are 
plenty." 

"Let  's  not  take  all  our  pleasure  at  once,"  he 


32 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


Bfterwarb 


suggested,  with  rare  tact.     "One  mattress  a 
day — how  '11  that  do  ?  " 

"We  '11  have  it  at  night,"  cried  Dorothy, 
clapping  her  hands,  "  and  when  the  mattresses 
are  all  gone,  we  '11  do  the  beds  and  bureaus 
and  the  haircloth  furniture  in  the  parlour.  Oh, 
I  do  so  love  a  bonfire!  " 

Harlan's  heart  grew  strangely  tender,  for  it 
had  been  this  underlying  childishness  in  her 
that  he  had  loved  the  most.  She  was  stirring 
the  ashes  now,  with  as  much  real  pleasure  as 
though  she  were  five  instead  of  twenty-five. 

As  it  happened,  Harlan  would  have  been 
saved  a  great  deal  of  trouble  if  he  had  followed 
out  her  suggestion  and  burned  all  of  the  beds 
in  the  house  except  two  or  three,  but  the 
balance  between  foresight  and  retrospection 
has  seldom  been  exact. 

"Beast  of  a  smudge  you're  making,"  he 
commented,  choking. 

"  Get  around  to  the  other  side,  then.  Why, 
Harlan,  what 's  that  ?  " 

"What's  what?" 

She  pointed  to  a  small  metal  box  in  the 
midst  of  the  ashes. 

"  Poem  on  Spring,  probably,  put  into  the 
corner-stone  by  the  builder  of  the  mattress." 


Bap  Hfterwarfc 


33 


"Don't  be  foolish,"  she  said,  with  assumed 
severity.  "  Get  me  a  pail  of  water." 

With  two  sticks  they  lifted  it  into  the  water 
and  waited,  impatiently  enough,  until  they 
were  sure  it  was  cool.  Then  Dorothy,  as 
serting  her  right  of  discovery,  opened  it  with 
trembling  fingers. 

"Why-ee!"  she  gasped. 

Upon  a  bed  of  wet  cotton  lay  a  large 
brooch,  made  wholly  of  clustered  diamonds, 
and  a  coral  necklace,  somewhat  injured  by  the 
fire. 

"Whose  is  it?"  demanded  Dorothy,  when 
she  recovered  the  faculty  of  speech. 

"I  should  say,"  returned  Harlan,  after  due 
deliberation,  "  that  it  belonged  to  you." 

"After  this,"  she  said,  slowly,  her  eyes 
wide  with  wonder,  "we'll  take  everything 
apart  before  we  burn  it." 

Harlan  was  turning  the  brooch  over  in  his 
hand  and  roughly  estimating  its  value  at  two 
thousand  dollars.  "  Here  's  something  on  the 
back,"  he  said.  "  '  R.  from  E.,  March  12, 
1865.'" 

"  Rebecca  from  Ebeneezer,"  cried  Dorothy. 
"Oh,  Harlan,  it's  ours!  Don't  you  remem 
ber  the  letter  said:  'my  house  and  all  its 


2>iamont>0 


34 


Cbe  Bas 
BfterwarS 


contents  to  my  beloved  nephew,  James  Harlan 
Carr'?" 

"  I  remember,"  said  Harlan.     But  his  con 
science  was  uneasy,  none  the  less. 


35 


A 


Ill 
jfirst  Caller 

S  Mr.  Blake  had  heard,  there  was  "one 

u    u  •    u.,.         •    u       i  f  u       »       librae? 

hull   room   mighty   nigh   plum   full  o 


nothin'  but  books  ";  a  grievous  waste,  indeed, 
when  one  already  "  had  a  book."  It  was  the 
front  room,  opposite  the  parlour,  and  every 
door  and  window  in  it  could  be  securely 
bolted  from  the  inside.  If  any  one  desired 
unbroken  privacy,  it  could  be  had  in  the 
library  as  nowhere  else  in  the  house. 

The  book-shelves  were  made  of  rough 
pine,  unplaned,  unpainted,  and  were  scarcely 
a  seemly  setting  for  the  treasure  they  bore. 
But  in  looking  at  the  books,  one  perceived 
that  their  owner  had  been  one  who(j>assed 
by  the  body  in  his  eager  search  for  the  soul.^ 

Here  were  no  fine  editions,  no  luxurious, 
costly  volumes  in  full  levant.  Illuminated 
pages,  rubricated  headings,  and  fine  illus 
trations  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Sbe  first 

Caller 


For  the  most  part,  the  books  were  simply 
but  serviceably  bound  in  plain  cloth  covers. 
Many  a  paper-covered  book  had  been  bound 
by  its  purchaser  in  pasteboard,  flimsy  enough 
in  quality,  yet  further  strengthened  by  cloth 
at  the  back.  Cheap,  pirated  editions  were 
so  many  that  Harlan  wondered  whether  his 
uncle  had  not  been  wholly  without  con 
science  in  the  matter  of  book-buying. 

Shelf  after  shelf  stretched  across  the  long 
wall,  with  its  company  of  mute  consolers 
whose  master  was  no  more.  The  fine  flower 
ing  of  the  centuries,  like  a  single  precious 
drop  of  imperishable  perfume,  was  hidden  in 
this  rude  casket.  The  minds  and  hearts  of 
the  great,  laid  pitilessly  bare,  were  here  in 
this  one  room,  shielded  merely  by  pasteboard 
and  cloth. 

Far  up  in  the  mountains,  amid  snow-clad 
steeps  and  rock-bound  fastnesses,  one  finds, 
perchance,  a  shell.  It  is  so  small  a  thing  that 
it  can  be  held  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand;  so 
frail  that  a  slight  pressure  of  the  finger  will 
crush  it  to  atoms,  yet,  held  to  the  ear,  it 
brings  the  surge  and  sweep  of  that  vast, 
primeval  ocean  which,  in  the  inconceivably 
remote  past,  covered  the  peak.  And  so,  to 


tfivst  Caller  37 


the  eye  of  the  mind,  the  small  brown  book, 
with  its  hundred  printed  pages,  brings  back 
the  whole  story  of  the  world. 

A  thin,  piping  voice,  to  which  its  fellows 
have  paid  no  heed,  after  a  time  becomes 
silent,  and,  ceaselessly  marching,  the  years 
pass  on  by.  Yet  that  trembling  old  hand, 
quietly  laid  at  last  upon  the  turbulent  heart, 
in  the  solitude  of  a  garret  has  guided  a  pen, 
and  the  manuscript  is  left.  Ragged,  worn, 
blotted,  spotted  with  candle  drippings  and 
endlessly  interlined,  why  should  these  few 
sheets  of  paper  be  saved  ? 

Because,  as  it  happens,  the  only  record  of 
the  period  is  there  —  a  record  so  significant 
that  fifty  years  can  be  reconstructed,  as  an 
entire  language  was  brought  to  light  by  a  triple 
inscription  upon  a  single  stone.  Thrown  like 
the  shell  upon  Time's  ever-receding  shore,  it 
is,  nevertheless,  the  means  by  which  unborn 
thousands  shall  commune  with  him  who 
wrote  in  his  garret,  see  his  whole  life  mir 
rored  in  his  book,  know  his  philosophy,  and 
take  home  his  truth.  For  by  way  of  the 
printed  page  comes  Immortality. 

There  was  no  book  in  the  library  which 
had  not  been  read  many  times.  Some  were 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3ack*o'*Xantern 


Ube  ffirst 
Caller 


falling  apart,  and  others  had  been  carefully 
sewn  together  and  awkwardly  rebound.  Still 
open,  on  a  rickety  table  in  the  corner,  was 
that  ponderous  volume  with  an  extremely 
limited  circulation  :  The  Publishers'  Trade 
List  Annual.  Pencilled  crosses  here  and 
there  indicated  books  to  be  purchased,  or  at 
least  sent  on  approval,  to  "customers  known 
to  the  House." 

"Some  day,"  said  Dorothy,  "when  it  's 
raining  and  we  can't  go  out,  we  '11  take  down 
all  these  books,  arrange  them  in  something 
like  order,  and  catalogue  them." 

"  How  optimistic  you  are!  "  remarked  Har- 
lan.  "  Do  you  think  it  could  be  done  in  one 
day  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,"  returned  Dorothy;  "  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

Harlan  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth, 
pausing  now  and  then  to  look  out  of  the  win 
dow,  where  nothing  much  was  to  be  seen 
except  the  orchard,  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  house,  and  Claudius  Tiberius,  sunning 
himself  pleasantly  upon  the  porch.  Four 
weeks  had  been  a  pleasant  vacation,  but  two 
weeks  of  comparative  idleness,  added  to  it, 
were  too  much  for  an  active  mind  and  body 


ZTbe  ifirst  Caller 


39 


to  endure.  Three  or  four  times  he  had  tried 
to  begin  the  book  that  was  to  bring  fame 
and  fortune,  and  as  many  times  had  failed. 
Hitherto  Harlan's  work  had  not  been  obliged 
to  wait  for  inspiration,  and  it  was  not  so  easy 
as  it  had  seemed  the  day  he  bade  his  manag 
ing  editor  farewell. 

"Somebody  is  coming,"  announced  Doro 
thy,  from  the  window. 

"  Nonsense!    Nobody  ever  comes  here." 

"A  precedent  is  about  to  be  established, 
then.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  we  're  going 
to  have  company." 

"  Let  's  see."  Harlan  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  A  little  man 
in  a  huge  silk  hat  was  toiling  up  the  hill, 
aided  by  a  cane.  He  was  bent  and  old, 
yet  he  moved  with  a  certain  briskness,  and, 
as  Dorothy  had  said,  he  was  inevitably 
coming. 

"  Who  in  thunder —  "  began  Harlan. 

"  Our  first  company,"  interrupted  Dorothy, 
with  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "The  very 
first  person  who  has  called  on  us  since  we 
were  married!  " 

"  Except  Claudius  Tiberius, "amended  Har 
lan.  "  Is  n't  a  cat  anybody  ?  " 


B  little 

Q16  flDan 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  $acft»o'*%antern 


be  first 
Caller 


"  Claudius  is.  I  beg  his  imperial  pardon  for 
forgetting  him." 

The  rusty  bell-wire  creaked,  then  a  timid 
ring  came  from  the  rear  depths  of  the  house. 
"  You  let  him  in,"  said  Dorothy,  "and  I  '11 
go  and  fix  my  hair." 

"Am  I  right,"  queried  the  old  gentleman, 
when  Harlan  opened  the  door,  "  in  presuming 
that  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  address  Mr.  James 
Harlan  Carr  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Carr,"  answered  Harlan,  po 
litely.  "  Will  you  come  in  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  visitor,  in  high 
staccato,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Claudius 
Tiberius  had  scooted  in  between  his  feet;  "it 
will  be  my  pleasure  to  claim  your  hospitality 
for  a  few  brief  moments. 

"I  had  hoped,"  he  went  on,  as  Harlan 
ushered  him  into  the  parlour,  "to  be  able  to 
make  your  acquaintance  before  this,  but  my 
multitudinous  duties " 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a 
card,  cut  somewhat  irregularly  from  a  sheet  of 
white  cardboard,  and  bearing  in  tremulous 
autographic  script:  "Jeremiah  Bradford, 
Counsellor  at  Law." 

"Oh,"   said    Harlan,    "it   was    you   who 


jfirst  Caller 


wrote  me  the  letter.  I  should  have  hunted 
you  up  when  I  first  came,  should  n't  I  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Mr.  Bradford.  "It 
is  I  who  have  been  remiss.  It  is  etiquette  that 
the  old  residents  should  call  first  upon  the 
newcomers.  Many  and  varied  duties  in  con 
nection  with  the  practice  of  my  profession 
have  hitherto — "  His  eyes  sought  the  por 
trait  over  the  mantel.  "A  most  excellent 
likeness  of  your  worthy  uncle,"  he  continued, 
irrelevantly,  "a  gentleman  with  whom,  as  I 
understand,  you  never  had  the  pleasure  and 
privilege  of  becoming  acquainted." 

"I  never  met  Uncle  Ebeneezer,"  rejoined 
Harlan,  "but  mother  told  me  a  great  deal 
about  him  and  we  had  one  or  two  pictures — 
daguerreotypes,  I  believe  they  were." 

"Undoubtedly,  my  dear  sir.  This  portrait 
was  painted  from  his  very  last  daguerreotype 
by  an  artist  of  renown.  It  is  a  wonderful 
likeness.  He  was  my  Colonel  —  I  served 
under  him  in  the  war.  It  was  my  desire  to 
possess  a  portrait  of  him  in  uniform,  but  he 
would  never  consent,  and  would  not  allow 
anyone  save  myself  to  address  him  as  Colonel. 
An  eccentric,  but  very  estimable  gentleman." 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Harlan,  "why 


HflDost 

ErceUeiU 
lahenees 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ube  ff iret 
Caller 


he  should  have  left  the  house  to  me.  I  had 
never  even  seen  him." 

"  Perhaps,"  smiled  Mr.  Bradford,  enigmati 
cally,  "that  was  his  reason,  or  rather,  per 
haps  I  should  say,  if  you  had  known  your 
uncle  more  intimately  and  had  visited  him 
here,  or,  if  he  had  had  the  privilege  of  know 
ing  you — quite  often,  as  you  know,  a  personal 
acquaintance  proves  disappointing,  though, 
of  course,  in  this  case " 

The  old  gentleman  was  floundering  help 
lessly  when  Harlan  rescued  him.  "I  want 
you  to  meet  my  wife,  Mr.  Bradford.  If  you 
will  excuse  me,  I  will  call  her." 

Left  to  himself,  the  visitor  slipped  back  and 
forth  uneasily  upon  his  haircloth  chair,  and 
took  occasion  to  observe  Claudius  Tiberius, 
who  sat  near  by  and  regarded  the  guest  un- 
blinkingly.  Hearing  approaching  footsteps, 
he  took  out  his  worn  silk  handkerchief,  un 
folded  it,  and  wiped  the  cold  perspiration 
from  his  legal  brow.  In  his  heart  of  hearts, 
he  wished  he  had  not  come,  but  Dorothy's 
kindly  greeting  at  once  relieved  him  of  all 
embarrassment. 

"We  have  been  wondering,"  she  said, 
brightly,  "who  would  be  the  first  to  call 


Jfirst  Caller 


43 


upon  us,  and  you  have  come  at  exactly  the 
right  time.  New  residents  are  always  given 
two  weeks,  are  they  not,  in  which  to  get 
settled  ?" 

"Quite  so,  my  dear  madam,  quite  so,  and 
I  trust  that  you  are  by  this  time  fully  accus 
tomed  to  your  changed  environment.  Judson 
Centre,  while  possessing  few  metropolitan 
advantages,  has  distinct  and  peculiar  recom 
mendations  of  an  individual  character  which 
endear  the  locality  to  those  residing  therein." 

"I  think  I  shall  like  it  here,"  said  Dorothy. 
"At  least  I  shall  try  to." 

"A  very  commendable  spirit,"  rejoined  the 
old  gentleman,  warmly,  "and  rather  remark 
able  in  one  so  young." 

Mrs.  Carr  graciously  acknowledged  the  com 
pliment,  and  the  guest  flushed  with  pleasure. 
To  perception  less  fine,  there  would  have 
been  food  for  unseemly  mirth  in  his  attire. 
Never  in  all  her  life  before  had  Dorothy  seen 
rough  cow-hide  boots,  and  grey  striped 
trousers  worn  with  a  rusty  and  moth-eaten 
dress-coat  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  An 
immaculate  expanse  of  shirt-front  and  a  gen 
eral  air  of  extreme  cleanliness  went  far  toward 
redeeming  the  unfamiliar  costume.  The  silk 


H  Com= 

inenBablc 

Spirit 


44 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ubc  Jf  irst 
Caller 


hat,  with  a  bell-shaped  crown  and  wide,  roll 
ing  brim,  belonged  to  a  much  earlier  period, 
and  had  been  brushed  to  look  like  new. 
Even  Harlan  noted  that  the  ravelled  edges 
of  his  linen  had  been  carefully  trimmed  and 
the  worn  binding  of  the  hat  brim  inked 
wherever  necessary. 

His  wrinkled  old  face  was  kindly,  though 
somewhat  sad.  His  weak  blue  eyes  were 
sheltered  by  an  enormous  pair  of  spectacles, 
which  he  took  off  and  wiped  continually.  He 
was  smooth-shaven  and  his  scanty  hair  was 
as  white  as  the  driven  snow.  Now,  as  he 
sat  in  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  parlour,  he  seemed 
utterly  friendless  and  forlorn — a  complete 
failure  of  that  pitiful  type  which  never  for  a 
moment  guesses  that  it  has  failed. 

"It  will  be  my  delight,"  the  old  man  was 
saying,  his  hollow  cheeks  faintly  flushed,  "to 
see  that  the  elite  of  Judson  Centre  pay  pro 
per  respect  to  you  at  an  early  date.  If  I  were 
not  most  unfortunately  a  single  gentleman,  my 
wife  would  do  herself  the  honour  of  calling 
upon  you  immediately  and  of  tendering  you 
some  sort  of  hospitality  approximately  com 
mensurate  with  your  worth.  As  it  is " 

"  As  it  is,"  said  Harlan,  taking  up  the  wan- 


ZTbe  jftrst  Caller 


45 


dering  thread  of  the  discourse,  "that  particu 
lar  pleasure  must  be  on  our  side.  We  both 
hope  that  you  will  come  often,  and  informally." 
"It  would  be  a  solace  to  me,"  rejoined  the 
old  gentleman,  tremulously,  "  to  find  the 
niece  and  nephew  of  my  departed  friend  both 
congenial  and  companionable.  He  was  my 
Colonel — I  served  under  him  in  the  war — and 
until  the  last,  he  allowed  me  to  address  him 
as  Colonel  —  a  privilege  accorded  to  no  one 
else.  He  very  seldom  left  his  own  estate,  but 
at  his  request  I  often  spent  an  evening  or  a 
Sunday  afternoon  in  his  society,  and  after  his 
untimely  death,  I  feel  the  loss  of  his  com 
panionship  very  keenly.  He  was  my  Colonel 


"I  should  imagine  so,"  said  Harlan,  kindly, 
"though,  as  I  have  told  you,  I  never  knew 
him  at  all." 

"A  much-misunderstood  gentleman,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Bradford,  carefully  wiping  his  spec 
tacles.  "  My  grief  is  too  recent,  at  present, 
to  enable  me  to  discourse  freely  of  his  many 
virtues,  but  at  some  future  time  I  shall  hope 
to  make  you  acquainted  with  your  bene 
factor.  He  was  my  Colonel,  and  in  serv 
ing  under  him  in  the  war,  I  had  an  unusual 


a  Solace 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ube  first 
Caller 


opportunity  to  know  him  as  he  really  was. 
May  I  ask,  without  intruding  upon  your  private 
affairs,  whether  or  not  it  is  your  intention  to 
reside  here  permanently?" 

"We  have  not  made  up  our  minds,"  re 
sponded  Harlan.  "We  shall  stay  here  this 
Summer,  anyway,  as  I  have  some  work  to  do 
which  can  be  done  only  in  a  quiet  place." 

"Quiet!"  muttered  the  old  gentleman, 
"quiet  place!  If  I  might  venture  to  suggest, 
I  should  think  you  would  find  any  other 
season  more  agreeable  for  prolonged  mental 
effort.  In  Summer  there  are  distractions " 

"Yes,"  put  in  Dorothy,  "in  Summer,  one 
wants  to  be  outdoors,  and  I  am  going  to  keep 
chickens  and  a  cow,  but  my  husband  hopes 
to  have  his  book  finished  by  September." 

"His  book!"  repeated  Mr.  Bradford,  in 
genuine  astonishment.  "  Am  I  actually  ad 
dressing  an  author  ?  " 

He  beamed  upon  Harlan  in  a  way  which 
that  modest  youth  found  positively  discon 
certing. 

"A  would-be  author  only,"  laughed  Har 
lan,  the  colour  mounting  to  his  temples. 
"  I  've  done  newspaper  work  heretofore,  and 
now  I  'm  going  to  try  something  else." 


Ube  ffirst  Caller 


47 


"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  rising,  "I        Bn 


must  really  beg  the  privilege  of  clasping 
your  hand.  It  is  a  great  honour  for  Judson 
Centre  to  have  an  author  residing  in  its 
midst! " 

Taking  pity  upon  Harlan,  Dorothy  hastened 
to  change  the  subject.  "  We  hope  it  may 
be,"  she  observed,  lightly,  "and  I  wonder, 
Mr.  Bradford,  if  you  could  not  give  me  some 
good  advice  ?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,  my  dear  madam. 
Any  knowledge  I  may  possess  is  trebly  at 
your  service,  for  the  sake  of  the  distinguished 
author  whose  wife  you  have  the  honour  to  be, 
for  the  sake  of  your  departed  relative,  who  was 
my  friend,  my  Colonel,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
for  your  own  sake." 

"  It  is  only  about  a  maid,"  said  Dorothy. 

"A my  dear  madam,  I  beg  your  par 
don  ?  " 

"  A  maid,"  repeated  Dorothy;  "  a  servant." 

"Oh!  A  hired  girl,  or  more  accurately,  in 
the  parlance  of  Judson  Centre,  the  help.  Do 
1  understand  that  it  is  your  desire  to  become 
an  employer  of  help  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  answered  Dorothy,  somewhat  awed 
by  the  solemnity  of  his  tone,  "  if  help  is  to  be 


Employer 
of  *elp 


Ube  fitet 
Caller 


found.  I  thought  you  might  know  where  I 
could  get  some  one." 

"  If  I  might  be  permitted  to  suggest,"  re 
plied  Mr.  Bradford,  after  due  deliberation,  "I 
should  unhesitatingly  recommend  Mrs.  Sarah 
Smithers,  who  did  for  your  uncle  during  the 
entire  period  of  his  residence  here  and  whose 
privilege  it  was  to  close  his  eyes  in  his  last 
sleep.  She  is  at  present  without  prospect  of  a 
situation,  and  I  believe  would  be  very  ready 
to  accept  a  new  position,  especially  so  desir 
able  a  position  as  this,  in  your  service." 

"  Thank  you.  Could  you — could  you  send 
her  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  shall  do  so,  most  assuredly,  providing 
she  is  willing  to  come,  and  should  she  chance 
not  to  be  agreeably  disposed  toward  so  pleas 
ing  a  project,  it  will  be  my  happiness  to  en 
deavour  to  persuade  her."  Drawing  out  a 
memorandum  book  and  a  pencil,  the  old  gen 
tleman  made  an  entry  upon  a  fresh  page. 
"  The  multitudinous  duties  in  connection  with 
the  practice  of  my  profession,"  he  began — 
"there,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  already  at 
tended  to,  since  it  is  placed  quite  out  of  my 
power  to  forget." 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged,"  said  Dorothy. 


JFirst  Caller 


49 


"  And  now,"  continued  the  visitor,  "  I  must 
go.  I  fear  I  have  already  outstayed  the  limit 
ation  of  a  formal  visit,  such  as  the  first  should 
be,  and  it  is  not  my  desire  to  intrude  upon  an 
author's  time.  Moreover,  my  own  duties, 
slight  and  unimportant  as  they  are  in  com 
parison,  must  ultimately  press  upon  my  atten 
tion." 

"Come  again,"  said  Harlan,  kindly,  follow 
ing  him  to  the  door. 

"  It  will  be  my  great  pleasure,"  rejoined  the 
guest,  "not  only  on  your  own  account,  but 
because  your  personality  reminds  me  of  that 
of  my  departed  friend.  You  favour  him  con 
siderably,  more  particularly  in  the  eyes,  if  I 
may  be  permitted  to  allude  to  details.  I  think 
I  told  you,  did  I  not,  that  he  was  my  Colonel 
and  I  was  privileged  to  serve  under  him  in  the 
war  ?  My — oh,  I  walked,  did  I  not  ?  I  re 
member  that  it  was  my  intention  to  come  in  a 
carriage,  as  being  more  suitable  to  a  formal 
visit,  but  Mr.  Blake  had  other  engagements 
for  his  vehicle.  Dear  sir  and  madam,  I  bid 
you  good  afternoon." 

So  saying,  he  went  downhill,  briskly 
enough,  yet  stumbling  where  the  way  was 
rough.  They  watched  him  until  the  bobbing, 


H  JFormal 
Visit 


5° 


Bt  tbe  Stan  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ube  $  irst 
Caller 


bell-shaped  crown  of  the  ancient  head-gear 
was  completely  out  of  sight. 

"What  a  dear  old  man!"  said  Dorothy. 
"He's  lonely  and  we  must  have  him  come 
up  often." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Harlan,  "that  I  look 
like  Uncle  Ebeneezer  ?  " 

"Indeed  you  don't!"  cried  Dorothy,  "and 
that  reminds  me.  I  want  to  take  that  picture 
down." 

"To  burn  it?"  inquired  Harlan,  slyly. 

"  No,  I  wouldn  't  burn  it,"  answered  Doro 
thy,  somewhat  spitefully,  "but  there's  no 
law  against  putting  it  in  the  attic,  is  there  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  Can  we  reach  it 
from  a  chair  ?  " 

Together  they  mounted  one  of  the  haircloth 
monuments,  slipping,  as  Dorothy  said,  until 
it  was  like  walking  on  ice. 

"Now  then,"  said  Harlan,  gaily,  "come  on 
down,  Uncle  !  You  're  about  to  be  moved 
into  the  attic  !  " 

The  picture  lunged  forward,  almost  before 
they  had  touched  it,  the  heavy  gilt  frame 
bruising  Dorothy's  cheek  badly.  In  catch 
ing  it,  Harlan  turned  it  completely  around, 
then  gave  a  low  whistle  of  astonishment. 


TIbe  jfirst  Caller 


Pasted  securely  to  the  back  was  a  fearsome 
skull  and  cross-bones,  made  on  wrapping 
paper  with  a  brush  and  India  ink.  Below  it, 
in  great  capitals,  was  the  warning  inscription: 
"LET  MY  PICTURE  ALONE!" 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it  ?"  asked  Har- 
lan,  endeavouring  to  laugh,  though,  as  he 
afterward  admitted,  he  "  felt  creepy."  "Shall 
I  take  it  up  to  the  attic  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Dorothy,  in  a  small,  un 
natural  voice,  "leave  it  where  it  is." 

While  Harlan  was  putting  it  back,  Dorothy, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  crept  around  to 
the  back  of  the  easel  which  bore  Aunt  Re 
becca's  portrait.  She  was  not  at  all  surprised 
to  find,  on  the  back  of  it,  a  notice  to  this 
effect:  "ANYONE  DARING  TO  MOVE 
MRS.  JUDSON'S  PICTURE  WILL  BE 
HAUNTED  FOR  LIFE  BY  US  BOTH." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Dorothy,  some 
what  viciously,  when  Harlan  had  joined  her. 
"  What  kind  of  a  woman  do  you  suppose 
she  could  have  been,  to  marry  him  ?  I  '11  bet 
she  's  glad  she  's  dead !  " 

Dorothy  was  still  wiping  blood  from  her 
face  and  might  not  have  been  wholly  un 
prejudiced.  Aunt  Rebecca  was  a  gentle, 


Ulariuiui 

1Inscrip= 

tions 


52 


at  tbe  SiQn  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*%antern 


Ube  jf  icet 
Caller 


sweet-faced  woman,  if  her  portrait  told  the 
truth,  possessed  of  all  the  virtues  save  self- 
assertion  and  dominated  by  habitual,  unself 
ish  kindness  to  others.  She  could  not  have 
been  discourteous  even  to  Claudius  Tiberius, 
who  at  this  moment  was  seated  in  state  upon 
the  sofa  and  purring  industriously. 


53 


IV 


I'VE  ordered  the  typewriter,"  said 
Dorothy,  brightly,  "and  some  nice 
new  note-paper,  and  a  seal.  I  've  just  been 
reading  about  making  virtue  out  of  necessity, 
so  I  've  ordered  '  At  the  Sign  of  the  Jack-o'- 
Lantern  '  put  on  our  stationery,  in  gold,  and 
a  yellow  pumpkin  on  the  envelope  flap,  just 
above  the  seal.  And  I  want  you  to  make  a 
funny  sign-board  to  flap  from  a  pole,  the  way 
they  did  in  'Rudder  Grange.'  If  you  could 
make  a  wooden  Jack-o'-Lantern,  we  could 
have  a  candle  inside  it  at  night,  and  then  the 
sign  would  be  just  like  the  house.  We  can 
get  the  paint  and  things  down  in  the  village. 
Won't  it  be  cute  ?  We  're  farmers,  now, 
so  we  '11  have  to  pretend  we  like  it." 

Harlan  repressed  an  exclamation,  which 
could  not  have  been  wholly  inspired  by 
pleasure. 


54 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantcrn 


"  What  's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Dorothy, 
easily.  "  Don't  you  like  the  design  for  the 
note-paper?  If  you  don't,  you  won't  have  to 
use  it.  Nobody  's  going  to  make  you  write 
letters  on  paper  you  don't  like,  so  cheer  up." 

"It  is  n't  the  paper,"  answered  Harlan, 
miserably;  "  it's  the  typewriter."  Up  to  the 
present  moment,  sustained  by  a  false,  but 
none  the  less  determined  pride,  he  had  re 
frained  from  taking  his  wife  into  his  confidence 
regarding  his  finances.  With  characteristic 
masculine  short-sightedness,  he  had  failed  to 
perceive  that  every  moment  of  delay  made 
matters  worse. 

"Might  I  inquire,"  asked  Mrs.  Carr,  coolly, 
"  what  is  wrong  with  the  typewriter  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all,"  sighed  Harlan,  "except 
that  we  can't  afford  it."  The  whole  bitter 
truth  was  out,  now,  and  he  turned  away 
wretchedly,  ashamed  to  meet  her  eyes. 

It  seemed  ages  before  she  spoke.  Then  she 
said,  in  smooth,  icy  tones:  "What  was  your 
object  in  offering  to  get  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  spoke  impulsively,"  explained  Harlan, 
forgetting  that  he  had  never  suggested  buying 
a  typewriter.  "  I  did  n't  stop  to  think.  I  'm 
sorry,"  he  concluded,  lamely. 


finances  55 

"I     suppose     you     spoke     impulsively," 
snapped  Dorothy,  "  when  you  asked  me  to     ^Jf^ 
marry  you.    You  're  sorry  for  that,  too,  are  n't 
you  ?  " 

"Dorothy!" 

"You  're  not  the  only  one  who's  sorry," 
she  rejoined,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes 
blazing.  "I  had  no  idea  what  an  expense  I 
was  going  to  be!  " 

"Dorothy!"  cried  Harlan,  angrily;  "you 
did  n't  think  I  was  a  millionaire,  did  you? 
Were  you  under  the  impression  that  I  was  an 
active  branch  of  the  United  States  Mint  ?  " 

"No,"  she  answered,  huskily;  "I  merely 
thought  I  was  marrying  a  gentleman  instead 
of  a  loafer,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  mis 
take  ! "  She  slammed  the  door  on  the  last 
word,  and  he  heard  her  light  feet  pattering 
swiftly  down  the  hall,  little  guessing  that  she 
was  trying  to  gain  the  shelter  of  her  own 
room  before  giving  way  to  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Happy  are  they  who  can  drown  all  pain,  sor 
row,  and  disappointment  in  a  copious  flood 
of  tears.  In  an  hour,  at  the  most,  Dorothy 
would  be  her  sunny  self  again,  penitent,  and 
wholly  ashamed  of  her  undignified  outburst. 
By  to-morrow  she  would  have  forgotten  it, 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


finances 


but  Harlan,  made  of  sterner  clay,  would  re 
member  it  for  days. 

"Loafer!"  The  cruel  word  seemed  writ 
ten  accusingly  on  every  wall  of  the  room.  In 
a  sudden  flash  of  insight  he  perceived  the 
truth  of  it — and  it  hurt. 

"Two  months,"  he  thought  ;  "two  months 
of  besotted  idleness.  And  I  used  to  chase 
news  from  the  Battery  to  the  Bronx  every 
day  from  eight  to  six  !  Murders,  smallpox, 
East  Side  scraps,  and  Tammany  Hall.  Why 
in  the  hereafter  can't  they  have  a  fire  at  the 
sanitarium,  or  something  that  I  can  wire 
in?" 

"The  Temple  of  Healing,"  as  Dorothy  had 
christened  it  in  a  happier  moment,  stood  on  a 
distant  hill,  all  but  hidden  now  by  trees  and 
shrubbery.  A  column  of  smoke  curled  lazily 
upward  against  the  blue,  but  there  was  no 
immediate  prospect  of  a  fire  of  the  "news" 
variety. 

Harlan  stood  at  the  window  for  a  long  time, 
deeply  troubled.  The  call  of  the  city  dinned 
relentlessly  into  his  ears.  Oh,  for  an  hour  in 
the  midst  of  it,  with  the  rumble  and  roar  and 
clatter  of  ceaseless  traffic,  the  hurrying,  heed 
less  throng  rushing  in  every  direction,  the 


finances 

glare  of  the  sun  on  the  many-windowed  cliffs, 
the  fever  of  the  struggle  in  his  veins! 

And  yet — was  two  months  so  long,  when  a 
fellow  was  just  married,  and  had  n't  had  more 
than  a  day  at  a  time  off  for  six  years  ?  Since 
the  "cub  reporter"  was  first  "licked  into 
shape"  in  the  office  of  The  Thunderer,  there 
had  been  plenty  of  work  for  him,  year  in  and 
year  out. 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "if  the  old  man 
would  take  me  back  on  my  job  ? 

"  I  can  see  'em  in  the  office  now,"  went  on 
Harlan,  mentally,  "  when  I  go  back  and  tell 
'em  I  want  my  place  again.  The  old  man 
will  look  up  and  say  :  '  The  hell  you  do  ! 
Thought  you  'd  accepted  a  position  on  the 
literary  circuit  as  manager  of  the  nine  muses  ! 
Better  run  along  and  look  after  'em  before 
they  join  the  union.' 

"  And  the  exchange  man  will  yell  at  me  not 
to  slam  the  door  as  I  go  out,  and  I  '11  be 
pointed  out  to  the  newest  kid  as  a  horrible 
example  of  misdirected  ambition.  Brinkman 
will  say  :  'Sonny,  there's  a  bloke  that  got 
too  good  for  his  job  and  now  he 's  come 
back,  willing  to  edit  The  Mother's  Corner.' 

"It'd   be    about  the    same   in    the   other 


57 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


finances  offices,  too,"  he  thought.  "  '  Sorry,  nothing 
to-day,  but  there  might  be  next  month.  Drop 
in  again  sometime  after  six  weeks  or  so  and 
meanwhile  I  'II  let  you  know  if  anything  turns 
up.  Yes,  I  can  remember  your  address. 
Don't  slam  the  door  as  you  go  out.  Most 
people  seem  to  have  been  born  in  a  barn.' 

"Besides," he  continued  to  himself,  fiercely, 
"what  is  there  in  it?  They'll  take  your 
youth,  all  your  strength  and  energy,  and  give 
you  a  measly  living  in  exchange.  They  '11  fill 
you  with  excitement  till  you  're  never  good 
for  anything  else,  any  more  than  a  cavalry 
horse  is  fitted  to  pull  a  vegetable  wagon. 
Then,  when  you  're  old,  they  've  got  no  use 
for  you! " 

Before  his  mental  vision,  in  pitiful  array, 
came  that  unhappy  procession  of  hacks  that 
files,  day  in  and  day  out,  along  Newspaper 
Row,  drawn  by  every  instinct  to  the  arena 
that  holds  nothing  for  them  but  a  meagre,  un 
certain  pittance,  dwindling  slowly  to  charity. 

"That's  where  I'd  be  at  the  last  of  it," 
muttered  Harlan,  savagely,  "with  even  the 
cubs  offering  me  the  price  of  a  drink  to  get 
out.  And  Dorothy — good  God  !  Where 
would  Dorothy  be  ?  " 


finances 

He  clenched  his  fists  and  marched  up  and 
down  the  room  in  utter  despair.  "Why," 
he  breathed,  "why  wasn't  I  taught  to  do 
something  honest,  instead  of  being  cursed 
with  this  itch  to  write  ?  A  carpenter,  a  brick 
layer,  a  stone-mason, — any  one  of  'em  has  a 
better  chance  than  I!  " 

And  yet,  even  then,  Harlan  saw  clearly 
that  save  where  some  vast  cathedral  reared  its 
unnumbered  spires,  the  mason  and  the  brick 
layer  were  without  significance  ;  that  even 
the  builders  were  remembered  only  because 
of  the  great  uses  to  which  their  buildings 
were  put.  "That,  too,  through  print,"  he 
murmured.  "It  all  comes  down  to  the 
printed  page  at  last." 

On  a  table,  near  by,  was  a  sheaf  of  rough 
copy  paper,  and  six  or  eight  carefully  sharp 
ened  pencils — the  dull,  meaningless  stone 
waiting  for  the  flint  that  should  strike  it  into 
flame .  Day  after  day  the  table  had  stood  by 
the  window,  without  result,  save  in  Harlan's 
uneasy  conscience. 

"I'm  only  a  tramp,"  he  said,  aloud,  "and 
I  Ve  known  it,  all  along." 

He  sat  down  by  the  table  and  took  up  a 
pencil,  but  no  words  came.  Remorsefully,  he 


59 


S>own 
totbe 

prtntcb 
page 


6o 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*=Xantern 


finances  wrote  to  an  acquaintance — a  man  who  had  a 
book  published  every  year  and  filled  in  the 
intervening  time  with  magazine  work  and 
newspaper  specials.  He  sealed  the  letter  and 
addressed  it  idly,  then  tossed  it  aside  pur 
poselessly. 

"  Loafer  !  "  The  memory  of  it  stung  him 
like  a  lash,  and,  completely  overwhelmed 
with  shame,  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Suddenly,  a  pair  of  soft  arms  stole  around  his 
neck,  a  childish,  tear-wet  cheek  was  pressed 
close  to  his,  and  a  sweet  voice  whispered, 
tenderly:  "Dear,  I'm  sorry!  I'm  so  sorry 
I  can't  live  another  minute  unless  you  tell  me 
you  forgive  me! " 

"Am  I  really  a  loafer?"  asked  Harlan,  half 
an  hour  later. 

"Indeed  you're  not,"  answered  Dorothy, 
her  trustful  eyes  looking  straight  into  his; 
"you  're  absolutely  the  most  adorable  boy  in 
the  whole  world,  and  it 's  me  that  knows  it!  " 

"As  long  as  you  know  it,"  returned  Har 
lan,  seriously,  "  I  don't  care  a  hang  what  other 
people  think." 

" Now,  tell  me,"  continued  Dorothy,  "how 
near  are  we  to  being  broke  ?" 


finances  61 

Obediently,  Harlan  turned  his  pockets  in-     almost 

tticb 

side  out  and  piled  his  worldly  wealth  on  the 
table. 

"  Three  hundred  and  seventy-four  dollars 
and  sixteen  cents,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
finished  counting.  "Why,  we  're  almost 
rich,  and  a  little  while  ago  you  tried  to  make 
me  think  we  were  poor!  " 

"It's  all  1  have,  Dorothy — every  blooming 
cent,  except  one  dollar  in  the  savings  bank. 
Sort  of  a  nest  egg  I  had  left,"  he  explained. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  said,  reaching  down 
into  her  collar  and  drawing  up  a  loop  of  worn 
ribbon.  "Straight  front  corset,"  she  ob 
served,  flushing,  "  makes  a  nice  pocket  for 
almost  everything."  She  drew  up  a  chamois- 
skin  bag,  of  an  unprepossessing  mouse  colour, 
and  emptied  out  a  roll  of  bills.  "  Two  hun 
dred  and  twelve  dollars,"  she  said,  proudly, 
"and  eighty-three  cents  and  four  postage 
stamps  in  my  purse. 

"I  saved  it,"  she  continued,  hastily,  "for 
an  emergency,  and  I  wanted  some  silk  stock 
ings  and  a  French  embroidered  corset  and 
some  handmade  lingerie  worse  than  you  can 
ever  know.  Was  n't  I  a  brave,  heroic,  noble 
woman  ?  " 


62 


Ht  tbe 


of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Finances  "  Indeed  you  were,"  he  cried,  "  but,  Doro 
thy,  you  know  I  can't  touch  your  money!  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Because — because — because  it  is  n't  right. 
Do  you  think  I  'in  cad  enough  to  live  on  a 
woman's  earnings  ?" 

"Harlan,"  said  Dorothy,  kindly,  "don't  be 
a  fool.  You  '11  take  my  whole  heart  and  soul 
and  life — all  that  I  have  been  and  all  that  I  'm 
going  to  be — and  be  glad  to  get  it,  and  now 
you  're  balking  at  ten  cents  that  I  happened  to 
have  in  my  stocking  when  I  took  the  fatal 
step." 

"  Dear  heart,  don't.  It  's  different — tre 
mendously  different.  Can't  you  see  that  it  is  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  'm  not  worth  as  much 
as  two  hundred  and  twelve  dollars  and  eighty- 
three  cents  and  four  postage  stamps  ?  " 

"Darling,  you're  worth  more  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  put  together.  Don't  talk  to 
me  like  that.  But  I  can't  touch  your  money, 
truly,  dear,  I  can't;  so  don't  ask  me." 

"Idiot,"  cried  Dorothy,  with  tears  raining 
down  her  face,  "  don't  you  know  I  'd  go  with 
you  if  you  had  to  grind  an  organ  in  the  street, 
and  collect  the  money  for  you  in  a  tin  cup  till 
we  got  enough  for  a  monkey  ?  What  kind 


jftnances 


of  a  dinky  little  silver-plated  wedding  present 
do  you  think  I  am,  anyway?  You " 

The  rest  of  it  was  sobbed  out,  incoherently 
enough,  on  his  hitherto  immaculate  shirt-front. 
"  You  don't  mind,"  she  whispered,  "  if  I  cry 
down  your  neck,  do  you  ?  " 

"If  you're  going  to  cry,"  he  answered, 
his  voice  trembling,  "this  is  the  one  place 
for  you  to  do  it,  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
cry." 

"  I  won't,  then,"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes 
on  a  wet  and  crumpled  handkerchief.  In  a 
time  astonishingly  brief  to  one  hitherto  un 
familiar  with  the  lachrymal  function,  her  sobs 
had  ceased. 

"  You  've  made  me  cry  nearly  a  quart  since 
morning,"  she  went  on,  with  assumed 
severity,  "and  I  hope  you'll  behave  so  well 
from  now  on  that  I  '11  never  have  to  do  it 
again.  Look  here." 

She  led  him  to  the  window,  where  a  pair  of 
robins  were  building  a  nest  in  the  boughs  of  a 
maple  close  by.  "  Do  you  see  those  birds  ?  " 
she  demanded,  pointing  at  them  with  a  dim 
pled,  rosy  forefinger. 

"Yes,  what  of  it?" 

"  Well,  they  're  married,  are  n't  they  ?  " 


mat 
function 


64 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc=o'=Xantern 


finances          "  I  hope  they  are,"  laughed  Harlan,  "or  at 
least  engaged." 

"  Who 's  bringing  the  straw  and  feathers 
for  the  nest  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Both,  apparently,"  he  replied,  unwillingly. 

"  Why  is  n't  she  rocking  herself  on  a  bough, 
and  keeping  her  nails  nice,  and  fixing  her 
feathers  in  the  latest  style,  or  perhaps  going 
off  to  some  fool  bird  club  while  he  builds  the 
nest  by  himself?" 

"  Don't  know." 

"Nor  anybody  else,"  she  continued,  with 
much  satisfaction.  "Now,  if  she  happened 
to  have  two  hundred  and  twelve  feathers,  of 
the  proper  size  and  shape  to  go  into  that  nest, 
do  you  suppose  he  'd  refuse  to  touch  them, 
and  make  her  cry  because  she  brought  them 
to  him  ?  " 

"  Probably  he  would  n't,"  admitted  Harlan. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  Dorothy 
edged  up  closer  to  him.  "  Do  you  suppose," 
she  queried,  "  that  Mr.  Robin  thinks  more  of 
his  wife  than  you  do  of  yours  ?  " 

"Indeed  he  doesn't!" 

"  And  still,  he  's  letting  her  help  him." 

"But " 

"  Now,  listen,  Harlan.    We  've  got  a  house, 


^finances  6s 

with  more  than  enough  furniture  to  make  it 
comfortable,  though  it 's  not  the  kind  of  furni 
ture  either  of  us  particularly  like.  Instead  of 
buying  a  typewriter,  we  '11  rent  one  for  three 
or  four  dollars  a  month  until  we  have  enough 
money  to  buy  one.  And  I  'm  going  to  have 
a  cow  and  some  chickens  and  a  garden,  and 
I  'm  going  to  sell  milk  and  butter  and  cream 
and  fresh  eggs  and  vegetables  and  chickens 
and  fruit  to  the  sanitarium,  and " 

"The  sanitarium  people  must  have  plenty 
of  those  things." 

"  But  not  the  kind  I  'm  going  to  raise,  nor 
put  up  as  I  'm  going  to  put  it  up,  and  we  '11 
be  raising  most  of  our  own  living  besides. 
You  can  write  when  you  feel  like  it,  and  be 
helping  me  when  you  don't  feel  like  it,  and 
before  we  know  it,  we  '11  be  rich.  Oh,  Har- 
lan,  I  feel  like  Eve  all  alone  in  the  Garden  with 
Adam!  " 

The  prospect  fired  his  imagination,  for,  in 
common  with  most  men,  a  chicken-ranch  had 
appealed  strongly  to  Harlan  ever  since  he 
could  remember. 

"Well,"  he  began,  slowly,  in  the  tone 
which  was  always  a  signal  of  surrender. 

"Won't  it  be  lovely,"  she  cried  ecstatically, 


66 


at  tbe  Sf0n  of  tbe  3acfc»»o'*3Lantem 


finances 


"  to  have  our  own  bossy  cow  mooing  in  the 
barn,  and  our  own  chickens  for  Sunday  dinner, 
and  our  own  milk,  and  butter,  and  cream  ? 
And  I  '11  drive  the  vegetable  waggon  and  you 
can  take  the  things  in " 

"I  guess  not,"  interrupted  Harlan,  firmly. 
"If  you  're  going  to  do  that  sort  of  thing, 
you'll  have  people  to  do  the  work  when  I 
can't  help  you.  The  idea  of  my  wife  driving 
a  vegetable  cart! " 

"All  right,"  answered  Dorothy,  submis 
sively,  wise  enough  to  let  small  points  settle 
themselves  and  have  her  own  way  in  things 
that  really  mattered.  "I've  not  forgotten 
that  I  promised  to  obey  you." 

A  gratified  smile  spread  over  Harlan's 
smooth,  boyish  face,  and,  half-fearfully,  she 
reached  into  her  sleeve  for  a  handkerchief 
which  she  had  hitherto  carefully  concealed. 

"That's  not  all,"  she  smiled.     "Look!" 

"Twenty-three  dollars,"  he  said.  "Why, 
where  did  you  get  that?" 

"It  was  in  my  dresser.  There  was  a  false 
bottom  in  one  of  the  small  drawers,  and  I 
took  it  out  and  found  this." 

"What  in — "  began  Harlan. 

"It's  a  present  to  us   from   Uncle   Eben- 


^finances 


67 


eezer,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  sparkling  and 
her  face  aglow.  "It's  fora  coop  and  chick 
ens,"  she  continued,  executing  an  intricate 
dance  step.  "Oh,  Harlan,  are  n't  you  awfully 
glad  we  came  ?  " 

Seeing  her  pleasure  he  could  not  help  be 
ing  glad,  but  afterward,  when  he  was  alone, 
he  began  to  wonder  whether  they  had  not 
inadvertently  moved  into  a  bank. 

"Might  be  worse  places,"  he  reflected, 
"  for  the  poor  and  deserving  to  move  into. 
Diamonds  and  money — what  next  ?" 


H  present 


68 


Obte. 
Smttbers 


V 

.  Smitbers 


E  chickens  were  clucking  peacefully  in 
their  corner  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  door- 
yard,  and  the  newly  acquired  bossy  cow 
mooed  unhappily  in  her  improvised  stable. 
Harlan  had  christened  the  cow  "  Maud,"  be 
cause  she  insisted  upon  going  into  the  garden, 
and  though  Dorothy  had  vigorously  pro 
tested  against  putting  Tennyson  to  such 
base  uses,  the  name  still  held,  out  of  sheer 
appropriateness. 

Harlan  was  engaged  in  that  pleasant  pas 
time  known  as  "  pottering."  The  instinct  to 
drive  nails,  put  up  shelves,  and  to  improve 
generally  his  local  habitation  is  as  firmly 
seated  in  the  masculine  nature  as  housewifely 
characteristics  are  ingrained  in  the  feminine 
soul.  Never  before  having  had  a  home  of  his 
own,  Harlan  was  enjoying  it  to  the  full. 

Early  hours  had  been  the  rule  at  the  Jack- 


flbrs.  Smftbers 


o'-Lantern  ever  since  the  feathered  sultan 
with  his  tribe  of  voluble  wives  had  taken 
up  his  abode  on  the  hilltop.  Indeed,  as 
Harlan  said,  they  were  obliged  to  sleep 
when  the  chickens  did — if  they  slept  at  all. 
So  it  was  not  yet  seven  one  morning  when 
Dorothy  went  in  from  the  chicken  coop,  sing 
ing  softly  to  herself,  and  intent  upon  the  par 
ticular  hammer  her  husband  wanted,  never 
expecting  to  find  Her  in  the  kitchen. 

"1 — 1  beg  your  pardon?"  she  stammered, 
inquiringly. 

A  gaunt,  aged,  and  preternaturally  solemn 
female,  swathed  in  crape,  bent  slightly  for 
ward  in  her  chair,  without  making  an  effort 
to  rise,  and  reached  forth  a  black-gloved  hand 
tightly  grasping  a  letter,  which  was  tremu 
lously  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  J.  H.  Carr." 

"My  dear  Madam,"  Dorothy  read. 

"The  multitudinous  duties  in  connection 
with  the  practice  of  my  profession  have  un 
fortunately  prevented  me,  until  the  present 
hour,  from  interviewing  Mrs.  Sarah  Smithers 
in  regard  to  your  requirements.  While  she  is 
naturally  unwilling  to  commit  herself  entirely 
without  a  more  definite  idea  of  what  is 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acft*o'*Xantern 

expected  of  her,  she  is  none  the  less  kindly 
disposed.  May  I  hope,  my  dear  madam,  that 
at  the  first  opportunity  you  will  apprise  me  of 
ensuing  events  in  this  connection,  and  that  in 
any  event  I  may  still  faithfully  serve  you  ? 

"With  kindest  personal  remembrances  and 
my  polite  salutations  to  the  distinguished 
author  whose  wife  you  have  the  honour  to 
be,  I  am,  my  dear  madam, 

"Yr.  most  respectful  and  obedient  servant, 
"JEREMIAH  BRADFORD. 

"Oh,"  said  Dorothy,  "you're  Sarah.  I 
had  almost  given  you  up." 

"Begging  your  parding,  Miss,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Smithers  in  a  chilly  tone  of  reproof,  "but 
I  take  it  it 's  better  for  us  to  begin  callin'  each 
other  by  our  proper  names.  If  we  should  get 
friendly,  there  'd  be  ample  time  to  change. 
Your  uncle,  God  rest  'is  soul,  allers  called  me 
'  Mis'  Smithers.' " 

Somewhat  startled  at  first,  Mrs.  Carr  quickly 
recovered  her  equanimity.  "  Very  well,  Mrs. 
Smithers,"  she  returned,  lightly,  reflecting 
that  when  in  Rome  one  must  follow  Roman 
customs;  "Do  you  understand  all  branches 
of  general  housework  ?  " 


.  Smitbers 


"Iff  didn't,  I  wouldn't  be  makin'  no  at 
tempts  in  that  direction,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith- 
ers,  harshly.  "  I  does  n't  allow  nobody  to  do 
wot  I  does  no  better  than  wot  I  does  it." 

Dorothy  smiled,  for  this  was  distinctly  en 
couraging,  from  at  least  one  point  of  view. 

"  You  wear  a  cap,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,  mum,  for  dustin'.  When  I  goes 
out  I  puts  on  my  bonnet." 

"Can  you  do  plain  cooking?"  inquired 
Dorothy,  hastily,  perceiving  that  she  was 
treading  upon  dangerous  ground. 

"Yes,  mum.  The  more  plain  it  is  the 
better  all  around.  Your  uncle  was  never 
one  to  fill  hisself  with  fancy  dishes  days  and 
walk  the  floor  with  'em  nights,  that 's  wot  'e 
wasn't." 

"What  wages  do  you  have,  Sa  —  Mrs. 
Smithers  ?" 

"I  worked  for  your  uncle  for  a  dollar  and 
a  half  a  week,  bein'  as  we  'd  knowed  each 
other  so  long,  and  on  account  of  'im  bein' 
easy  to  get  along  with  and  never  makin'  no 
trouble,  but  I  would  n't  work  for  no  woman 
for  less  'n  two  dollars." 

"  That  is  satisfactory  to  me,"  returned 
Dorothy,  trying  to  be  dignified.  "I  daresay 


plain 
Cooking 


/Era. 
Smitbers 


we  shall  get  on  all  right.  Can  you  stay 
now  ?  " 

"  If  you  've  finished,"  said  Mrs.  Smithers, 
ignoring  the  question,  "there's  a  few  things 
I  'd  like  to  ask.  'Ow  did  you  get  that  bruise 
on  your  face  ?  " 

"  I — 1  ran  into  something,"  answered  Doro 
thy,  unwillingly,  and  taken  quite  by  surprise. 

"Wot  was  It,"  demanded  Mrs.  Smithers. 
"Your  'usband's  fist  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Carr,  sternly,  "it  was  a 
piece  of  furniture." 

"I've  never  knowed  furniture,"  observed 
Mrs.  Smithers,  doubtfully,  "to  get  up  and  'it 
people  in  the  face  wot  was  n't  doin'  nothink 
to  it.  If  you  disturb  a  rockin'-chair  at  night 
w'en  it 's  restin'  quiet,  you  '11  get  your  ankle 
'it,  but  I  've  never  knowed  no  furniture  to  'it 
people  under  the  eye  unless  it  'ad  been  threw, 
that 's  wot  I  ain't. 

"I  mind  me  of  my  youngest  sister,"  Mrs. 
Smithers  went  on,  her  keen  eyes  uncomfort 
ably  fixed  upon  Dorothy.  "  '  Er  'usband  was 
one  of  these  '  ere  masterful  men,  'e  was,  same 
as  wot  yours  is,  and  w'en  'er  did  n't  please 
'im,  'e  'd  'it  'er  somethink  orful.  Many  's  the 
time  I  've  gone  there  and  found  'er  with  'er 


flDrs.  Smitbers 


73 


poor  face  all  cut  up  and  the  crockery  broke 
bad.  '  I  dropped  a  cup  '  'er  'd  say  to  me, 
'and  the  pieces  flew  up  and  'it  me  in  the 
face.'  'Er  face  looked  like  a  crazy  quilt  from 
'aving  dropped  so  many  cups,  and  wunst, 
without  thinkin'  wot  1  might  be  doin'  of,  I  gave 
'er  a  chiny  tea  set  for  'er  Christmas  present. 

"  Wen  I  went  to  see  'er  again,  the  tea  set 
was  all  broke  and  'er  'ad  court  plaster  all  over 
'er  face.  The  pieces  must  'ave  flew  more  'n 
common  from  the  tea  set,  cause  'er  'usband's 
'ed  was  laid  open  somethink  frightful  and 
they  'd  'ad  in  the  doctor  to  take  a  seam  in  it. 
From  that  time  on  I  never  'card  of  no  more 
cups  bein'  dropped  and  'er  face  looked  quite 
human  and  peaceful  like  w'en  'e  died.  God 
rest  'is  soul,  'e  ain't  a-breakin'  no  tea  sets  now 
by  accident  nor  a-purpose  neither.  I  was 
never  one  to  interfere  between  man  and  wife, 
Miss  Carr,  but  I  want  you  to  tell  your  'usband 
that  should  'e  undertake  to  'it  me,  'e  '11  get  a 
bucket  of  'ot  tea  throwed  in  'is  face." 

"It's  not  at  all  likely,"  answered  Dorothy, 
biting  her  lip,  "that  such  a  thing  will  hap 
pen."  She  was  swayed  by  two  contradic 
tory  impulses — one  to  scream  with  laughter, 
the  other  to  throw  something  at  Mrs.  Smithers. 


B 

masterful 
flDan 


74 


Ht  tbe  5i0n  of  tbe  3acfe=o'*=Xantern 


"  'E  's  been  at  peace  now  six  months  come 
Tuesday,"  continued  Mrs.  Smithers,  "and  on 
account  of  'is  'avin'  broke  the  tea  set,  I  don't 
feel  no  call  to  wear  mourning  for  'im  more  'n  a 
year,  though  folks  thinks  as  'ow  it  brands  me 
as  'eartless  for  takin'  it  off  inside  of  two. 
Sakes  alive,  wot 's  that?"  she  cried,  drawing 
her  sable  skirts  more  closely  about  her  as  a 
dark  shadow  darted  across  the  kitchen. 

"It  's  only  the  cat,"  answered  Dorothy,  re 
assuringly.  "Come  here,  Claudius." 

Mrs.  Smithers  repressed  an  exclamation 
of  horror  as  Claudius,  purring  pleasantly, 
came  out  into  the  sunlight,  brandishing  his 
plumed  tail,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
Dorothy's  skirt,  blinking  his  green  eyes  at  the 
intruder. 

" 'E 's  the  very  cat,"  said  Mrs.  Smithers, 
hoarsely,  "wot  your  uncle  killed  the  week 
afore  'e  died !  " 

"  Before  who  died  ?  "  asked  Dorothy,  a  chill 
creeping  into  her  blood. 

"Your  uncle,"  whispered  Mrs.  Smithers, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  Claudius  Tiberius. 
"'E  killed  .that  very  cat,  'e  did,  'cause  'e 
couldn't  never  abide  'im,  and  now  'e  's  come 
back!  " 


/Brs.  Smitbers 


75 


"Nonsense!"  cried  Dorothy,  trying  to  be 
severe.  "If  he  killed  the  cat,  it  couldn't 
come  back — you  must  know  that." 

"  I  don't  know  w'y  not,  Miss.  Anyhow,  'e 
killed  the  cat,  that's  wot  'e  did,  and  I  saw  'is 
dead  body,  and  even  buried  'im,  on  account 
of  your  uncle  not  bein'  able  to  abide  cats, 
and  'ere  'e  is.  Somebody  's  dug  'im  up, 
and  'e  's  come  to  life  again,  thinkin'  to  'aunt 
your  uncle,  and  your  uncle  'as  follered  'im, 
that's  wot  'e  'as,  and  there  bein'  nobody  'ere 
to  'aunt  but  us,  'e  's  a  'auntin'  us  and  a-doin' 
it'ard." 

"Mrs.  Smithers,"  said  Dorothy,  rising,  "I 
desire  to  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense.  The 
cat  happens  to  be  somewhat  similar  to  the 
dead  one,  that's  all." 

"  Begging  your  parding,  Miss,  for  askin', 
but  did  you  bring  that  there  cat  with  you  from 
the  city  ?  " 

Affecting  not  to  hear,  Dorothy  went  out, 
followed  by  Claudius  Tiberius,  who  appeared 
anything  but  ghostly. 

"1  knowed  it,"  muttered  Mrs.  Smithers, 
gloomily,  to  herself.  "  'E  was  'ere  w'en  'er 
come,  and  'e  's  the  same  cat.  'E  's  come  back 
to  'aunt  us,  that's  wot  'e  'as! " 


•Gbc 
Same 
Cat 


76 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Are. 
Smitbers 


"Harlan,"  said  Dorothy,  half-way  between 
smiles  and  tears,  "she's  come." 

Harlan  dropped  his  saw  and  took  up  his 
hammer.  "  Who's  come  ?"  he  asked.  "From 
your  tone,  it  might  be  Mrs.  Satan,  or  some 
body  else  from  the  infernal  regions." 

"  You're  not  far  out  of  the  way,"  rejoined 
Dorothy.  "It'sSa — Mrs.  Smithers." 

"  Oh,  our  maid  of  all  work  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  she's  made  of,"  gig 
gled  Dorothy,  hysterically.  "She  looks  like 
a  tombstone  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and 
carries  with  her  the  atmosphere  of  a  grave 
yard.  We  have  to  call  her  'Mrs.  Smithers/ 
if  we  don't  want  her  to  call  us  by  our  first 
names,  and  she  has  two  dollars  a  week.  She 
says  Claudius  is  a  cat  that  uncle  killed  the 
week  before  he  died,  and  she  thinks  you  hit 
me  and  gave  me  this  bruise  on  my  cheek." 

"The  old  lizard,"  said  Harlan,  indignantly. 
"She  sha'n't  stay  !  " 

"Now  don't  be  cross,"  interrupted  Doro 
thy.  "It 'sail  in  the  family,  for  your  uncle 
hit  me,  as  you  well  know.  Besides,  we 
can't  expect  all  the  virtues  for  two  dollars  a 
week  and  I  'm  tired  almost  to  death  from  try 
ing  to  do  the  housework  in  this  big  house 


/ftrs.  Smitbers 


77 


and  take   care  of  the  chickens,  too.     We  '11 

private 

get  on  with  her  as  best  we  can  until  we  see  a 
chance  to  do  better." 

"Wise  little  woman,"  responded  Harlan, 
admiringly.  "Can  she  milk  the  cow ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  '11  go  in  and  ask  her." 

"Excuse  me,  Miss,"  began  Mrs.  Smithers, 
before  Dorothy  had  a  chance  to  speak,  "but 
am  I  to  'ave  my  old  rooms  ?  " 

' '  Which  rooms  were  they  ?  " 

"These  'ere,  back  of  the  kitchen.  My 
own  settin'  room  and  bedroom  and  kitchen 
and  pantry  and  my  own  private  door  outside. 
Your  uncle  was  alters  a  great  hand  for  bein' 
private  and  insistin'  on  other  folks  keepin' 
private,  that 's  wot  'e  was,  but  God  rest  'is 
soul,  it  did  n't  do  the  poor  old  gent  much 
good." 

"Certainly,"  said  Dorothy,  "take  your  old 
rooms.  And  can  you  milk  a  cow  ?  " 

Mrs.  Smithers  sighed.  "I  ain't  never 'ad  it 
put  on  me,  Miss,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  a 
martyr  trying  to  make  himself  comfortable 
up  against  the  stake,  "not  as  a  regler  thing,  I 
ain't,  but  wotever  I  'm  asked  to  do  in  the  line 
of  duty  whiles  I  'm  dwellin'  in  this  sufferin' 
and  dyin'  world,  I  aims  to  do  the  best  wot  I 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantem 


Ace. 

Smitbers 


can,  w'ether  it's  milkin'  a  cow,  drownin'  kit 
tens,  or  buryin'  a  cat  wot  can't  stay  buried." 

"  We  have  breakfast  about  half-past  seven," 
went  on  Dorothy,  quickly;  "luncheon  at 
noon  and  dinner  at  six." 

"Wot  at  six?"  demanded  Mrs.  Smithers, 
pricking  up  her  ears. 

"Dinner  !     Dinner  at  six." 

"  Lord  preserve  us,"  said  Mrs.  Smithers, 
half  to  herself.  "Your  uncle  allers  'ad  'is 
dinner  at  one  o'clock,  sharp,  and  'e  would  n't 
like  it  to  'ave  such  scandalous  goin's  on  in  'is 
own  'ouse." 

"You're  working  for  me,"  Dorothy  re 
minded  her  sharply,  "and  not  for  my  uncle." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which 
Mrs.  Smithers  peered  curiously  at  her  young 
mistress  over  her  steel-bowed  spectacles. 
"I'm  not  so  sure  as  you,"  she  said.  "On 
account  of  the  cat  'avin  come  back  from  'is 
grave,  it  would  n't  surprise  me  none  to  see 
your  uncle  settin'  'ere  at  any  time  in  'is 
shroud,  and  a-askin'  to  'ave  mush  and  milk 
for  'is  supper,  the  which  'e  was  so  powerful 
fond  of  that  I  was  more  'n  'alf  minded  at  the 
last  minute  to  put  some  of  it  in  's  coffin." 

"Mrs.   Smithers,"  said  Dorothy,   severely, 


.  Smitbers 


79 


"I  do  not  want  to  hear  any  more  about  dead 
people,  or  resurrected  cats,  or  anything  of 
that  nature.  What 's  gone  is  gone,  and 
there  's  no  use  in  continually  referring  to  it." 

At  this  significant  moment,  Claudius  Ti 
berius  paraded  somewhat  ostentatiously 
through  the  kitchen  and  went  outdoors. 

"You  see,  Miss?"  asked  Mrs.  Smithers, 
with  ill-concealed  satisfaction.  "  Wot 's  gone 
ain't  always  gone  for  long,  that 's  wot  it 
ain't." 

Dorothy  retreated,  followed  by  a  sepul 
chral  laugh  which  grated  on  her  nerves. 
"Upon  my  word,  dear,"  she  said  to  Harlan, 
"I  don't  know  how  we're  going  to  stand 
having  that  woman  in  the  house.  She  makes 
me  feel  as  if  I  were  an  undertaker,  a  grave 
digger,  and  a  cemetery,  all  rolled  into  one." 

"You're  too  imaginative,"  said  Harlan, 
tenderly,  stroking  her  soft  cheek.  He  had 
not  yet  seen  Mrs.  Smithers. 

"Perhaps,"  Dorothy  admitted,  "when  she 
gets  that  pyramid  of  crape  off  her  head,  she  '11 
seem  more  nearly  human.  Do  you  suppose 
she  expects  to  wear  it  in  the  house  all  the 
time?" 

"Miss  Carr !" 


•Resur- 
rectefc 
Cats 


8o 


Bt  tbe  Stan  ot  tbe  3ack*o'*Xantern 


Are. 

Smttbcre 


The  gaunt  black  shadow  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  kitchen  and  the  high,  harsh 
voice  shrilled  imperiously  across  the  yard. 

"I'm  coming,"  answered  Dorothy,  sub 
missively,  for  in  the  tone  there  was  that  which 
instinctively  impels  obedience.  "What  is 
it  ?"  she  asked,  when  she  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  Nothink.  I  only  wants  to  know  wot  it  is 
you  're  layin'  out  to  'ave  for  your — luncheon, 
if  that 's  wot  you  call  it." 

"Poached  eggs  on  toast,  last  night's  cold 
potatoes  warmed  over,  hot  biscuits,  jam,  and 
tea. " 

Mrs.  Smithers's  articulate  response  resem 
bled  a  cluck  more  closely  than  anything  else. 

"You  can  make  biscuits,  can't  you?" 
went  on  Dorothy,  hastily. 

"I  'ave,"  responded  Mrs.  Smithers,  dryly. 
"Begging  your  parding,  Miss,  but  is  that 
there  feller  sawin'  wood  out  by  the  chicken 
coop  your  'usband  ?  " 

"  The  gentleman  in  the  yard,"  said  Dorothy, 
icily,  "is  Mr.  Carr." 

"Be  n't  you  married  to  'im  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Smithers,  dropping  a  fork.  "I  understood  as 
'ow  you  was,  else  I  would  n't  'ave  come.  I 
was  never  one  to " 


Smitbecs 


81 


''I   most   assuredly  am  married  to  him," 

Bpccd 
answered  Dorothy,  with  due  emphasis  on  the 

verb. 

"Oh!  'E 's  the  build  of  my  youngest 
sister's  poor  dead  'usband;  the  one  wot  broke 
the  tea  set  wot  I  give  fer  over  'er  poor  'ed. 
'E  can  'it  powerful  'ard,  can 't  'e?" 

Quite  beyond  speech,  Dorothy  went  out 
doors  again,  her  head  held  high  and  a  danger 
ous  light  in  her  eyes.  To-morrow,  or  next 
week  at  the  latest,  should  witness  the  forced 
departure  of  Mrs.  Smithers.  Mrs.  Carr  real 
ised  that  the  woman  did  not  intend  to  be  im 
pertinent,  and  that  the  social  forms  of  Judson 
Centre  were  not  those  of  New  York.  Still, 
some  things  were  unbearable. 

The  luncheon  that  was  set  before  them, 
however,  went  far  toward  atonement.  With 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  Dorothy's 
cooking  nearly  always  went  wide  of  the  mark, 
and  Harlan  welcomed  the  change  with  unmis 
takable  pleasure. 

"I  say,  Dorothy,"  he  whispered,  as  they 
rose  from  the  table;  "get  on  with  her  if  you 
can.  Anybody  who  can  make  such  biscuits 
as  these  will  go  out  of  the  house  only  over 
my  dead  body." 


82 


Bt  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


/Dire. 
Smftbers 


The  latter  part  of  the  speech  was  unfortu 
nate.  "My  surroundings  are  so  extremely 
cheerful,"  remarked  Dorothy,  "that  I've  de 
cided  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  the  library 
reading  Poe.  I  've  always  wanted  to  do  it 
and  I  don't  believe  I  '11  ever  feel  any  creepier 
than  1  do  this  blessed  minute." 

In  spite  of  his  laughing  protest,  she  went 
into  the  library,  locked  the  door,  and  curled 
up  in  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  easy  chair  with  a 
well-thumbed  volume  of  Poe,  finding  a  two- 
dollar  bill  used  in  one  place  as  a  book  mark. 
She  read  for  some  time,  then  took  down  an 
other  book,  which  opened  of  itself  at  "The 
Gold  Bug." 

The  pages  were  thickly  strewn  with  mar 
ginal  comments  in  the  fine,  small,  shaky  hand 
she  had  learned  to  associate  with  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer.  The  paragraph  about  the  skull,  in  the 
tree  above  the  treasure,  had  evidently  filled 
the  last  reader  with  unprecedented  admiration, 
for  on  the  margin  was  written  twice,  in  ink: 
"A  very,  very  pretty  idea." 

She  laughed  aloud,  for  her  thoughts  since 
morning  had  been  persistently  directed  to 
ward  things  not  of  this  world.  "  I'm  glad  I  'm 
not  superstitious,"  she  thought,  then  jumped 


Smitbers  83 


almost  out  of  her  chair  at  the  sound  of  an 

©minous 

ominous  crash  in  the  kitchen.  crash 

"I  won't  go,"  she  thought,  settling  back 
into  her  place.  "  I'll  let  that  old  monument 
alone  just  as  much  as  I  can." 

Upon  the  whole,  it  was  just  as  well,  for 
the  "old  monument"  was  on  her  bony  knees, 
with  her  head  and  shoulders  quite  lost  in 
the  secret  depths  of  the  kitchen  range.  "I 
wonder,"  she  was  muttering,  "where  'e  could 
'ave  put  it.  It  would  'ave  been  just  like 
that  old  skinflint  to  'ave  'id  it  in  the  stove!  " 


TTbe 
Coming  of 

Elaine 


VI 


Coming  of  Elaine 

THERE  is  no  state  of  mental  wretchedness 
akin  to  that  which  precedes  the  writing 
of  a  book.  Harlan  was  moody  and  despairing, 
chiefly  because  he  could  not  understand  what 
it  all  meant.  Something  hung  over  him  like  a 
black  cloud,  completely  obscuring  his  usual 
sunny  cheerfulness. 

He  burned  with  the  desire  to  achieve,  yet 
from  the  depths  of  his  soul  came  only  empti 
ness.  Vague,  purposeless  aspirations,  like  dis 
embodied  spirits,  haunted  him  by  night  and  by 
day.  Before  his  inner  vision  came  unfamiliar 
scenes,  detached  fragments  of  conversation, 
the  atmosphere,  the  feeling  of  an  old  romance, 
then,  by  a  swift  change,  darkness  from  which 
there  seemed  no  possible  escape. 

A  woman  with  golden  hair,  mounted  upon 
a  white  horse,  gay  with  scarlet  and  silver  trap 
pings — surely  her  name  was  Elaine  ?  And  the 


Coming  of  Elaine 


company  of  gallant  knights  who  followed  her 
as  she  set  forth  upon  her  quest — who  were 
they,  and  from  whence  did  they  hail  ?  The 
fool  of  the  court,  with  his  bauble  and  his 
cracked,  meaningless  laughter,  danced  in  and 
out  of  the  picture  with  impish  glee.  Behind 
it  all  was  the  sunset,  such  a  sunset  as  was 
never  seen  on  land  or  sea.  Ribbons  of  splen 
did  colour  streamed  from  the  horizon  to  the 
zenith  and  set  the  shields  of  the  knights  aglow 
with  shimmering  flame.  Clashing  cymbals 
sounded  from  afar,  then,  clear  and  high,  a 
bugle  call,  the  winding  silvery  notes  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  till  they  were  lost  in  the 
purple  silence  of  the  hills.  Elaine  turned,  smil 
ing — was  not  her  name  Elaine  ?  And  then — 

Darkness  fell  and  the  picture  was  utterly 
wiped  out.  Harlan  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

To  take  the  dead,  dry  bones  of  words,  the 
tiny  black  things  that  march  in  set  spaces 
across  the  page;  to  set  each  where  it  inevita 
bly  belongs — truly,  it  seems  simple  enough. 
But  from  the  vast  range  of  our  written  speech 
to  select  those  which  fittingly  clothe  the 
thought  is  quite  another  matter,  and  presup 
poses  the  thought.  Even  then,  by  necessity, 
the  outcome  is  uncertain. 


Ube 
fool  of 
tbe  Court 


86 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbc  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ubc 

Coming  ot 

JElaine 


Within  the  mind  of  the  writer,  the  Book 
lives  and  breathes;  a  child  of  the  brain,  yearn 
ing  for  birth.  At  a  white  heat,  after  long 
waiting,  the  words  come — merely  a  commen 
tary,  an  index,  a  marginal  note  of  that  within. 
Reading  afterward  the  written  words,  the  fine 
invisible  links,  the  colour  and  the  music,  are 
treacherously  supplied  by  the  imagination, 
which  is  at  once  the  best  friend  and  the 
worst  enemy.  How  is  one  to  know  that 
only  a  small  part  of  it  has  been  written,  that 
the  best  of  it,  far  past  writing,  lingers  still 
unborn  ? 

Long  afterward,  when  the  original  picture 
has  faded  as  though  it  had  never  been,  one 
may  read  his  printed  work,  and  wonder,  in 
abject  self-abasement,  by  what  miracle  it  was 
ever  printed.  He  has  trusted  to  some  un 
known  psychology  which  strongly  savours  of 
the  Black  Art  to  reproduce  in  the  minds  of  his 
readers  the  picture  which  was  in  his,  and  from 
which  these  fragmentary,  marginal  notes  were 
traced.  Only  the  words,  the  dead,  meaning 
less  words,  stripped  of  all  the  fancy  which 
once  made  them  fair,  to  make  for  the  thousands 
the  wild,  delirious  bliss  that  the  writer  knew! 
To  write  with  the  tears  falling  upon  the  page, 


Coming  of  Elaine  87 


and  afterward  to  read,  in  some  particularly 
poignant  and  searching  review,  that  "the 
book  fails  to  convince!  "  Happy  is  he  whose 
written  pages  reproduce  but  faintly  the  glow 
from  whence  they  came.  For  "whoso  with 
blood  and  tears  would  dig  Art  out  of  his  soul, 
may  lavish  his  golden  prime  in  pursuit  of 
emptiness,  or,  striking  treasure,  find  only 
fairy  gold,  so  that  when  his  eyes  are  purged 
of  the  spell  of  morning,  he  sees  his  hands  are 
full  of  withered  leaves." 

A  meadow-lark,  rising  from  a  distant  field, 
dropped  golden  notes  into  the  still,  sunlit 
air,  then  vanished  into  the  blue  spaces  be 
yond.  A  bough  of  apple  bloom,  its  starry 
petals  anchored  only  by  invisible  cobwebs, 
softly  shook  white  fragrance  into  the  grass. 
Then,  like  a  vision  straight  from  the  golden 
city  with  the  walls  of  pearl,  came  Elaine,  the 
beautiful,  her  blue  eyes  laughing,  and  her 
scarlet  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

Harlan's  heart  sang  within  him.  His  trem 
bling  hands  grasped  feverishly  at  the  sheaf  of 
copy-paper  which  had  waited  for  this,  week 
in  and  week  out.  The  pencil  was  ready  to 
his  hand,  and  the  words  fairly  wrote  them 
selves: 


at  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


TIbe 
doming  of 

Elaine 


//  came  to  pass  that  when  the  year  was  at 
the  Spring,  the  Lady  Elaine  fared  forth  upon 
the  Heart's  Quest.  She  was  mounted  upon  a 
snowy  palfrey,  whose  trappings  of  scarlet  and 
silver  gleamed  brightly  in  the  sun.  Her  gown 
was  of  white  satin,  wondrously  embroidered  in 
fine  gold  thread,  which  was  no  less  gold  than 
her  hair,  falling  in  unchecked  splendour  about 
her. 

Blue  as  sapphires  were  the  eyes  of  Elaine, 
and  her  fair  cheek  was  like  that  of  an  apple- 
blossom.  Set  like  a  rose  upon  pearl  was  the 
dewy,  fragrant  sweetness  of  her  mouth,  and 
her  breath  was. like  that  of  the  rose  itself.  Her 
hands — but  how  shall  I  write  of  the  flower- 
like  hands  of  Elaine  ?  They — 

The  door-bell  pealed  portentously  through 
the  house,  echoing  and  re-echoing  through  the 
empty  rooms.  No  answer.  Presently  it  rang 
again,  insistently,  and  Elaine,  with  her  snowy 
palfrey,  whisked  suddenly  out  of  sight. 

Gone,  except  for  these  few  lines!  Harlan 
stifled  a  groan  and  the  bell  rang  once  more. 

Heavens!  Where  was  Dorothy?  Where 
was  Mrs.  Smithers  ?  Was  there  no  one  in  the 
house  but  himself?  Apparently  not,  for  the 


Coming  of  Elaine 


bell  rang  determinedly,  and  with  military 
precision. 

"  March,  march,  forward  march!  "  grumbled 
Harlan,  as  he  ran  downstairs,  the  one-two, 
one-two-three  being  registered  meanwhile  on 
the  bell-wire. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  person  who  violently 
wrenched  the  door  open,  but  in  spite  of  his 
annoyance,  Harlan  could  not  be  discourteous 
to  a  lady.  She  was  tall,  and  slender,  and  pale, 
with  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair,  and  so  very 
fragile  that  it  seemed  as  though  a  passing 
zephyr  might  almost  blow  her  away. 

"  How  do  you  do,"  she  said,  wearily.  "  I 
thought  you  were  never  coming." 

"I  was  busy,"  said  Harlan,  in  extenuation. 
"Will  you  come  in  ?"  She  was  evidently  a 
friend  of  Dorothy's,  and,  as  such,  demanded 
proper  consideration. 

The  invitation  was  needless,  however,  for 
even  as  he  spoke,  she  brushed  past  him,  and 
went  into  the  parlour.  "I'm  so  tired,"  she 
breathed.  "  I  walked  up  that  long  hill." 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  returned 
Harlan,  standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other.  "  Could  n't  you  find  the  stage  ?  " 

"  I   did  n't   look   for   it.     I   never  had  ariy 


•not  a 

pleasant 
person 


9o 


at  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ubc 
Coming  of 

Elaine 


ambition  to  go  on  the  stage,"  she  concluded, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "Where  is  Uncle 
Ebeneezer ?" 

"No  friend  of  Dorothy's,"  thought  Harlan, 
shifting  to  the  other  foot.  "Uncle  Eben 
eezer,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat,  "is  at 
peace." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the 
girl,  sinking  into  one  of  the  haircloth  chairs. 
"  Where  is  Uncle  Ebeneezer  ?  " 

"Uncle  Ebeneezer  is  dead,"  explained  Har 
lan,  somewhat  tartly.  Then,  as  he  remem 
bered  the  utter  ruin  of  his  work,  he  added, 
viciously,  "never  having  known  him  inti 
mately,  I  can't  say  just  where  he  is." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  face  as 
white  as  death.  Harlan  thought  she  had 
fainted,  when  she  relieved  his  mind  by  burst 
ing  into  tears.  He  was  more  familiar  with 
salt  water,  but,  none  the  less,  the  situation 
was  awkward. 

There  were  no  signs  of  Dorothy,  so  Harlan, 
in  an  effort  to  be  consoling,  took  the  visitor's 
cold  hands  in  his.  "Don't,"  he  said,  kindly; 
"cheer  up.  You  are  among  friends." 

"I  have  no  friends,"  she  answered,  be 
tween  sobs.  "  I  lost  the  last  when  my  dear 


Hbe  Coming  of  Elaine 


91 


mother  died.     She  made  me  promise,  during 

her  last  illness,  that  if  anything  happened  to      s>orotbs 

her,  I  would  come  to  Uncle  Ebeneezer.     She 

said  she  had  never  imposed  upon  him  and  that 

he  would  gladly  take  care  of  me,  for  her  sake. 

I  was  ill  a  long,  long  time,  but  as  soon  as  I  was 

able  to,  I  came,  and  now — and  now " 

"Don't,"  said  Harlan,  again,  awkwardly 
patting  her  hands,  and  deeply  touched  by  the 
girl's  distress.  "We  are  your  friends.  You 
can  stay  here  just  as  well  as  not.  I  am  mar 
ried  and " 

Upon  his  back,  Harlan  felt  eyes.  He  turned 
quickly,  and  saw  Dorothy  standing  in  the 
door — quite  a  new  Dorothy,  indeed;  very 
tall,  and  stately,  and  pale. 

Through  sheer  nervousness,  Mr.  Carr 
laughed — an  unfortunate,  high-pitched  laugh 
with  no  mirth  in  it.  "Let  me  present  my 
wife,"  he  said,  sobering  suddenly.  "Mrs. 
Carr,  Miss " 

Here  he  coughed,  and  the  guest,  rising, 
filled  the  pause.  "I  am  Elaine  St.  Clair,"  she 
explained,  offering  a  white,  tremulous  hand 
which  Dorothy  did  not  seem  to  see.  "It  is 
very  good  of  your  husband  to  ask  me  to  stay 
with  you." 


Ube 
Coming  of 

Elaine 


"Very,"  replied  Dorothy,  in  a  tone  alto 
gether  new  to  her  husband.  "He  is  always 
doing  lovely  things  for  people.  And  now, 
Harlan,  if  you  will  show  Miss  St.  Clair  to  her 
room,  I  will  speak  with  Mrs.  Smithers  about 
luncheon,  which  should  be  nearly  ready  by 
this  time." 

"Thunder,"  said  Harlan  to  himself,  as 
Dorothy  withdrew.  "What  in  the  devil  do 
1  know  about  '  her  room  '  ?  Have  you  ever 
been  here  before  ?  "  he  inquired  of  the  guest. 

"Never  in  my  life,"  answered  Miss  St. 
Clair,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Well,"  replied  Harlan,  confusedly,  "just 
go  on  upstairs,  then,  and  help  yourself.  There 
are  plenty  of  rooms,  and  cribs  to  burn  in  every 
blamed  one  of  'em,"  he  added,  savagely,  re 
membering  the  look  in  Dorothy's  eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  St.  Clair,  diffi 
dently  ;  "it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  let  me 
choose.  Can  some  one  bring  my  trunk  up 
this  afternoon  ?  " 

"I'll  attend  to  it,"  replied  her  host, 
brusquely. 

She  trailed  noiselessly  upstairs,  carrying  her 
heavy  suit  case,  and  Harlan,  not  altogether 
happy  at  the  prospect,  went  in  search  of 


Ube  Comma  of  Blafne 


93 


Dorothy.      At  the  kitchen  door  he    paused, 
hearing  voices  within. 

"They've  usually  et  by  themselves,"  Mrs. 
Smithers  was  saying.  "Is  this  a  new  one, 
or  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

The  sentence  was  utterly  without  meaning, 
either  to  Harlan  or  Dorothy,  but  the  answer 
was  given,  as  quick  as  a  flash.  "A  friend, 
Mrs.  Smithers — a  very  dear  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Carr's." 

"'Mr.  Carr's,'"  repeated  Harlan,  misera 
bly,  tiptoeing  away  to  the  library,  where  he 
sat  down  and  wiped  his  forehead.  "  '  A  very 
dear  old  friend.''  Disconnectedly,  and  with 
pronounced  emphasis,  Harlan  mentioned  the 
place  which  is  said  to  be  paved  with  good 
intentions. 

The  clock  struck  twelve,  and  it  was  just 
eleven  when  he  had  begun  on  The  Quest  of 
the  Lady  Elaine.  "'One  crowded  hour  of 
glorious  life  is  worth ' — what  idiot  said  it  was 
worth  anything?  "  groaned  Harlan,  inwardly. 
' '  Anyway,  I  've  had  the  crowded  hour.  '  Better 
fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay  ' ' 
—the  line  sang  itself  into  his  consciousness. 
"Europe  be  everlastingly  condemned,"  he 
muttered.  "  Oh,  how  my  head  aches  !  " 


H  Dear 
Olt>  friend 


94 


Ht  tbe  SiQn  of  tbe  Jacfe^o^OLantern 


Ube 
Coming  of 

Elaine 


He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  wondering 
where  "Cathay"  might  be.  It  sounded  like 
a  nice,  quiet  place,  with  no  "dear  old  friends" 
in  it — a  peaceful  spot  where  people  could 
write  books  if  they  wanted  to.  "Just  why," 
he  asked  himself  more  than  once,  "  was  I  in 
spired  to  grab  the  shaky  paw  of  that  human 
sponge  ?  '  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not 
what  they  mean  ' — oh,  the  devil  !  She  must 
have  a  volume  of  Tennyson  in  her  grip,  and 
it's  soaking  through  !  " 

Mrs.  Smithers  came  out  into  the  hall,  more 
sepulchral  and  grim-visaged  than  ever,  and 
rang  the  bell  for  luncheon.  To  Harlan's  fe 
vered  fancy,  it  sounded  like  a  sexton  tolling  a 
bell  for  a  funeral.  Miss  St.  Clair,  with  the 
traces  of  tears  practically  removed,  floated 
gracefully  downstairs,  and  Harlan,  coming 
out  of  the  library  with  the  furtive  step  of  a 
wild  beast  from  its  lair,  met  her  inoppor 
tunely  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

She  smiled  at  him  in  a  timid,  but  friendly 
fashion,  and  at  the  precise  moment,  Dorothy 
appeared  in  the  dining-room  door. 

"Harlan,  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  sweetest 
tones,  "  willyou  give  our  guest  your  arm  and  es 
cort  her  out  to  luncheon  ?  I  have  it  all  ready !  " 


Ube  Comina  of  lElainc  95 

Miss  St.   Clair  clutched  timidly  at  Harlan's         a 

Sign  of 

rigid  coat  sleeve,  wondering  what  strange  Devotion 
custom  of  the  house  would  be  evident  next, 
and  the  fog  was  thick  before  Mr.  Carr's  eyes, 
when  he  took  his  accustomed  seat  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  As  a  sign  of  devotion,  he  tried 
to  step  on  Dorothy's  foot  under  the  table, 
after  a  pleasing  habit  of  their  courtship  in  the 
New  York  boarding-house,  but  he  succeeded 
only  in  drawing  an  unconscious  "ouch"  and 
a  vivid  blush  from  Miss  St.  Clair,  by  which  he 
impressed  Dorothy  more  deeply  than  he 
could  have  hoped  to  do  otherwise. 

"Have  you  come  far,  Miss  St.  Clair?" 
asked  Dorothy,  conventionally. 

"From  New  York,"  answered  the  guest, 
taking  a  plate  of  fried  chicken  from  Harlan's 
shaky  hand. 

"I  know,"  said  Dorothy  sweetly.  "We 
come  from  New  York,  too."  Then  she  took 
a  bold,  daring  plunge.  "I  have  often  heard 
my  husband  speak  of  you. " 

"  Of  me,  Mrs.  Carr  ?  Surely  not!  It  must 
have  been  some  other  Elaine." 

"Perhaps,"  smiled  Dorothy,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "No  doubt  I  am  mistaken,  but 
you  may  have  heard  of  me  ?  " 


Ht  tbe  Sion  ot  tbe  3ack*o'*aiantern 


Ube 

Coming  of 
Elaine 


"Indeed  I  haven't,"  Elaine  assured  her. 
"I  never  heard  of  you  in  my  life  before. 
Why  should  I  ? "  A  sudden  and  earnest 
crow  under  the  window  behind  her  startled 
her  so  that  she  dropped  her  knife.  Harlan 
stooped  for  it  at  the  same  time  she  did  and 
their  heads  bumped  together  smartly. 

"Our  gentleman  chicken,"  went  on  Doro 
thy,  tactfully.  "  We  call  him  '  Abdul  Hamid.' 
You  know  the  masculine  nature  is  instinct 
ively  polygamous." 

Harlan  cackled  mirthlessly,  wondering,  sub 
consciously,  how  Abdul  Hamid  could  have 
escaped  from  the  coop.  After  that  there  was 
silence,  save  as  Dorothy,  in  her  most  hospita 
ble  manner,  occasionally  urged  the  guest  to 
have  more  of  something.  Throughout  lunch 
eon,  she  never  once  spoke  to  Harlan,  nor 
took  so  much  as  a  single  glance  at  his  red, 
unhappy  face.  Even  his  ears  were  scarlet, 
and  the  delicious  fried  chicken  which  he  was 
eating  might  have  been  a  section  of  rag 
carpet,  for  all  he  knew  to  the  contrary. 

"And  now,  Miss  St.  Clair,"  said  Dorothy, 
kindly,  as  they  rose  from  the  table,  "  I  am  sure 
you  will  wish  to  lie  down  and  rest  after  your 
long  journey.  Which  room  did  you  choose  ?  " 


Coming  of  Elaine 


97 


"  I  looked  at  all  of  them,"  responded  Elaine, 
touched  to  the  heart  by  this  unexpected  kind 
ness  from  strangers,  "and  finally  chose  the 
suite  in  the  south  wing.  It 's  a  nice  large 
room,  with  such  a  darling  little  sitting-room 
attached,  and  such  a  dear  work  basket." 

Harlan  nearly  burst,  for  the  description  was 
of  Dorothy's  own  particular  sanctum. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Carr,  very  quietly;  "I 
thought  my  husband  would  choose  that  room 
for  you — dear  Harlan  is  always  so  thoughtful! 
I  will  go  up  with  you  and  take  out  a  few  of 
my  things  which  have  been  unfortunately  left 
there." 

Shortly  afterward,  Mr.  Carr  also  climbed  the 
stairs,  his  head  swimming  and  his  knees 
knocking  together.  Nervously,  he  turned 
over  the  few  pages  of  his  manuscript,  then, 
hearing  Dorothy  coming,  grabbed  it  and  fled 
like  a  thief  to  the  library  on  the  first  floor. 
In  his  panic  he  bolted  the  doors  and  windows 
of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  former  retreat.  It  was 
unnecessary,  however,  for  no  one  came  near 
him. 

Throughout  the  long,  sweet  Spring  after 
noon,  Miss  St.  Clair  slept  the  dreamless  sleep 
of  utter  exhaustion,  Harlan  worked  fruitlessly 


Cbe  Suite 
intbc 
Soutb 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ube 

doming  of 
Elaine 


at  The  Otiest  of  Lady  Elaine,  and  Dorothy 
busied  herself  about  her  household  tasks, 
singing  with  forced  cheerfulness  whenever 
she  was  within  hearing  of  the  library. 

"I'll  explain  "  thought  Harlan,  wretchedly. 
But  after  all,  what  was  there  to  explain, 
except  that  he  had  never  seen  Miss  St.  Glair 
before,  never  in  all  his  life  heard  of  her, 
never  knew  there  was  such  a  person,  or  had 
never  met  anybody  who  knew  anything  about 
her?  "Besides,"  he  continued  to  himself, 
"even  then,  what  excuse  have  I  got  for  strok 
ing  a  strange  woman's  hand  and  telling  her 
I  'm  married  ?  " 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  he  decided  that 
it  would  be  policy  to  ignore  the  whole  matter. 
It  was  an  unfortunate  misunderstanding  all 
around,  which  could  not  be  cleared  away  by 
speech,  unless  Dorothy  should  ask  him  about 
it — which  he  was  very  certain  she  would  not 
do.  "She  ought  to  trust  me,"  he  said  to 
himself,  resentfully,  forgetting  the  absolute 
openness  of  thought  and  deed  upon  which  a 
woman's  trust  is  founded.  "  I  '11  read  her  the 
book  to-night,"  he  thought,  happily,  "and 
that  will  please  her." 

But   it   was  fated   not  to.      After  dinner, 


Coming  ot  Elaine  99 


which  was  much  the  same  as  luncheon,  as 
far  as  conversation  was  concerned,  Harlan  in- 
vited  Dorothy  to  come  into  the  library. 

She  followed  him,  obediently  enough,  and 
he  closed  the  door. 

"Dearest,"  he  began,  with  a  grin  which 
was  meant  to  be  cheerful  and  was  merely 
ridiculous,  "I've  begun  the  book  —  I  actually 
have!  I  've  been  working  on  it  all  day.  Just 
listen!" 

Hurriedly  possessing  himself  of  the  manu 
script,  he  read  it  in  an  unnatural  voice,  down 
to  the  flower-like  hands. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that,  Harlan," 
interrupted  Dorothy,  coolly  critical;  "I  par 
ticularly  noticed  her  hands  and  they  're  not 
nice  at  all.  They  're  red  and  rough  and  nearly 
the  size  of  a  policeman's." 

"Whose  hands?"  demanded  Harlan,  in 
genuine  astonishment. 

"  Why,  Elaine's  —  Miss  St.  Glair's.  If  you  're 
going  to  do  a  book  about  her,  you  might  at 
least  try  to  make  it  truthful." 

Mrs.  Carr  went  out,  closing  the  door  care 
fully,  but  firmly.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the 
whole  wretched  situation  dawned  upon  the 
young  and  aspiring  author. 


VII 


Hn 

tin  invites 
Quest 


Hn  Tflninvitefc  (5ue0t 

DOROTHY  sat  alone  in  her  room,  facing 
the  first  heartache  of  her  married  life. 
She  repeatedly  told  herself  that  she  was  not 
jealous;  that  the  primitive,  unlovely  emotion 
was  far  beneath  such  as  she.  But  if  Harlan 
had  only  told  her,  instead  of  leaving  her  to 
find  out  in  this  miserable  way!  It  had  never 
entered  her  head  that  the  clear-eyed,  clean- 
minded  boy  whom  she  had  married,  could 
have  anything  even  remotely  resembling  a 
past,  and  here  it  was  in  her  own  house! 
Moreover,  it  had  inspired  a  book,  and  she 
herself  had  been  unable  to  get  him  to  work 
at  all. 

Just  why  women  should  be  concerned  in  re 
gard  to  old  loves  has  never  been  wholly  clear. 
One  might  as  well  fancy  a  clean  slate,  freshly 
and  elaborately  dedicated  to  noble  compo 
sition,  being  bothered  by  the  addition  and 


Hn  "dmnvitefc  (Buest 


101 


subtraction  which  was  once  done  upon  its 
surface. 

With  her  own  eyes  she  had  seen  Miss  St. 
Clair  weeping,  while  Harlan  held  her  hands 
and  explained  that  he  was  married.  Un 
doubtedly  Miss  St.  Clair  accounted  for  various 
metropolitan  delays  and  absences  which  she 
had  joyously  forgiven  on  the  score  of  Harlan's 
"work."  Bitterest  of  all  was  the  thought 
that  she  must  endure  it — that  the  long  years 
ahead  of  her  offered  no  escape,  no  remedy, 
except  the  ignoble,  painful  one  which  she 
would  not  for  a  moment  consider. 

A  sudden  flash  of  resentment  stiffened  her 
backbone,  metaphorically  speaking.  In  spite 
of  Miss  St.  Clair,  Harlan  had  married  her,  and 
it  was  Miss  St.  Clair  who  was  weeping  over 
the  event,  not  Harlan.  She  had  seen  that  the 
visitor  made  Harlan  unhappy — very  well,  she 
would  generously  throw  them  together  and 
make  him  painfully  weary  of  her,  for  Love's 
certain  destroyer  is  Satiety.  Deep  in  Dorothy's 
consciousness  was  the  abiding  satisfaction  that 
she  had  never  once,  as  she  put  it  to  herself, 
"chased  him."  Never  a  note,  never  a  tele 
phone  call,  never  a  question  as  to  his  coming 
and  going  appeared  now  to  trouble  her.  The 


H  fffaeb 

Of  ttCs 

scntincnt 


at  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Hn 

Uninvited 
<3uest 


ancient,  primeval  relation  of  the  Seeker  and 
the  Sought  had  not  for  a  single  moment  been 
altered  through  her. 

Meanwhile,  Elaine  had  settled  down  peace 
fully  enough.  Having  been  regaled  since 
infancy  with  tales  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  gen 
erous  hospitality,  it  seemed  only  fitting  and 
proper  that  his  relatives  should  make  her  wel 
come,  even  though  Elaine's  mother  had  been 
only  a  second  cousin  of  Mrs.  Judson's.  Elaine 
had  been  deeply  touched  by  Harlan's  solici 
tude  and  Dorothy's  kindness,  seeing  in  it 
nothing  more  than  the  manifestation  of  a 
beautiful  spirit  toward  one  who  was  helpless 
and  ill. 

A  modest  wardrobe  and  a  few  hundred 
dollars,  saved  from  the  wreck  of  her  mother's 
estate,  and  the  household  furniture  in  storage, 
represented  Elaine's  worldly  goods.  As  too 
often  happens  in  a  material  world,  she  had 
been  trained  to  do  nothing  but  sing  a  little, 
play  a  little,  and  paint  unspeakably.  She 
planned,  vaguely,  to  stay  where  she  was  dur 
ing  the  Summer,  and  in  the  Autumn,  when 
she  had  quite  recovered  her  former  strength, 
to  take  her  money  and  learn  some  method  of 
self-support. 


Bn  ZHumvitefc  <3uest 


103 


Just  now  she  was  resting.  A  late  break 
fast,  a  walk  through  the  country,  a  light  lunch 
eon,  and  a  long  nap  accounted  for  Elaine's  day 
until  dinner-time.  After  dinner,  for  an  hour, 
she  exchanged  commonplaces  with  the  Carrs, 
then  retired  to  her  own  room  with  a  book 
from  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  library.  Even  Dor 
othy  was  forced  to  admit  that  she  made  very 
little  trouble. 

The  train  rumbled  into  the  station — the  very 
same  train  which  had  brought  the  Serpent 
into  Paradise.  Dorothy  smiled  a  little  at  the 
idea  of  a  snake  travelling  on  a  train  unless 
it  belonged  to  a  circus,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 
Having  mapped  out  her  line  of  conduct,  the 
rest  was  simple  enough — to  abide  by  it  even 
to  the  smallest  details,  and  patiently  await 
results. 

When  she  went  downstairs  again  she  was 
outwardly  quite  herself,  but  altogether  unpre 
pared  for  the  surprise  that  awaited  her  in  the 
parlour. 

"Hello,"  cried  a  masculine  voice,  cheerily, 
as  she  entered  the  room.  "I  've  never  seen 
you  before,  have  I  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Dorothy, 
startled,  but  not  in  the  least  afraid. 


Ube 
Surprise 

intbe 
parlour 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Bn 

•UnfiuntcS 
<3ue9t 


The  young  man  who  rose  to  greet  her  was 
not  at  all  unpleasant  to  look  upon.  He  was 
taller  than  Harlan,  smooth-shaven,  had  nice 
brown  eyes,  and  a  mop  of  curly  brown  hair 
which  evidently  annoyed  him.  Moreover,  he 
was  laughing,  as  much  from  sheer  joy  of  liv 
ing  as  anything  else. 

"Which  side  of  the  house  are  you  a  rela 
tive  of  ?"  he  asked. 

"  The  inside,"  returned  Dorothy.  "  I  keep 
house  here." 

"You  don't  say  so!  What's  become  of 
Sally  ?  Uncle  shoo  her  off  the  lot  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about," 
answered  Dorothy,  with  a  fruitless  effort 
to  appear  matronly  and  dignified.  "  If  by 
'  uncle '  you  mean  Uncle  Ebeneezer,  he  's 
dead." 

"  You  don't  tell  me!  Reaped  at  last,  after 
all  this  delay!  Then  how  did  you  come 
here  ?  " 

"By  train,"  responded  Dorothy,  enjoying 
the  situation  to  the  utmost.  "Uncle  Eben 
eezer  left  the  house  and  furniture  to  my 
husband." 

The  young  man  sank  into  a  chair  and 
wiped  the  traces  of  deep  emotion  from  his 


an  THntm>ite&  (Buest 


I05 


ruddy  face.  "  Hully  Gee!  "  he  said,  when  he 
recovered  speech.  "1  suppose  that's  French 
for  'Dick,  chase  yourself."' 

"  Perhaps  not,"  suggested  Mrs.  Carr, 
strangely  loath  to  have  this  breezy  individual 
take  his  departure.  "  You  might  tell  me  who 
you  are;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Not  a  bad  notion  at  all.  I  'm  the  Dick  of 
the  firm  of  'Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,'  you've 
doubtless  heard  about  from  your  childhood. 
My  other  name  is  Chester,  but  few  know  it. 
I'm  merely  'Dick'  to  everybody,  yourself  in 
cluded,  I  trust,"  he  added  with  an  elaborate 
bow.  "If  you  will  sit  down,  and  make 
yourself  comfortable,  I  will  now  unfold  to  you 
the  sad  story  of  my  life. 

"I  was  born  of  poor  but  honest  parents 
about  twenty-three  years  ago,  according  to 
the  last  official  census.  They  brought  me  up 
until  I  reached  the  ripe  age  of  twelve,  then  got 
tired  of  their  job  and  went  to  heaven.  Since 
then  I  've  brought  myself  up.  I  've  just  taught 
a  college  all  it  can  learn  from  me,  and  been 
put  out.  Prexy  confided  to  me  that  I  was  n't 
going  to  graduate,  so  I  shook  the  classic  dust 
from  my  weary  feet  and  fled  hither  as  to  a 
harbour  of  refuge.  I  've  always  spent  my 


Ube  Sa6 

Stors 

of  Ibis 

life 


io6 


at  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  -Jacfe*o'*Xantern 


Hn 

"dnlnviteS 

Cuest 


Summers  with  Uncle  Ebeneezer,  because  it 
was  cheap  for  me  and  good  for  him,  but  I  can't 
undertake  to  follow  him  up  this  Summer,  not 
knowing  exactly  where  he  is,  and  not  caring 
for  a  warm  climate  anyway." 

Inexpressibly  shocked,  Dorothy  looked  up 
to  the  portrait  over  the  mantel  half  fearfully, 
but  there  was  no  change  in  the  stern,  ma 
licious  old  face. 

"  You  're  afraid  of  him,  are  n't  you  ?  "  asked 
Dick,  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  I  always  have  been,"  admitted  Dorothy. 
"  He  scared  me  the  first  time  we  came  here— 
it  was  at  night,  and  raining." 

"I've  known  him  to  scare  people  in  broad 
daylight,  and  they  were  n't  always  women 
either.  He  used  to  be  a  pleasant  old  codger, 
but  he  got  over  it,  and  after  he  learned  to 
swear  readily,  he  was  a  pretty  tough  party  to 
buck  up  against.  It  took  nerve  to  stay  here 
when  uncle  was  in  a  bad  mood,  but  most 
people  have  more  nerve  than  they  think  they 
have.  You  have  n't  told  me  your  name  yet." 

"Mrs.  Carr — Dorothy  Carr." 

"Pretty  name,"  remarked  Dick,  with  evi 
dent  admiration.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
call  you  '  Dorothy '  till  the  train  goes  back. 


Hn  ZHninxntefc  0uest 


107 


It  will  be  something  for  me  to  remember  in 
the  desert  waste  of  my  empty  years  to  come." 

A  friendly,  hospitable  impulse  seized  Mrs. 
Carr.  "  Why  should  you  go  ?  "  she  inquired, 
smiling.  "If  you've  been  in  the  habit  of 
spending  your  Summers  here,  you  needn't 
change  on  our  account.  We  'd  be  glad  to 
have  you,  I  'm  sure.  A  dear  old  friend  of  my 
husband's  is  already  here." 

"  Fine  or  superfine  ?  " 

"Superfine,"  returned  Dorothy,  feeling  very 
much  as  though  the  clock  had  been  turned 
back  twenty  years  or  more  and  she  was  at  a 
children's  party  again. 

"You  can  bet  your  sweet  life  I'll  stay," 
said  Dick,  "and  if  I  bother  you  at  any  time, 
just  say  so  and  I  '11  skate  out,  with  no  hard 
feelings  on  either  side.  You  may  need  me 
when  the  rest  of  the  bunch  gets  here." 

"The  rest  of — oh  Harlan,  come  here  a 
minute  !  " 

She  had  caught  him  as  he  was  going  into 
the  library  with  his  work,  thinking  that  a 
change  of  environment  might  possibly  pro 
duce  an  acceptable  change  in  the  current  of 
his  thoughts. 

"Dick,"  said  Dorothy,  when  Harlan  came 


tospftabk 
Impulse 


loS 


at  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*3Lanteni 


Hn 

TOnlnviteb 

Oueet 


to  the  door,  "this  is  my  husband.  Mr. 
Chester,  Mr.  Carr." 

For  days  Harlan  had  not  seen  Dorothy  with 
such  rosy  cheeks,  such  dancing  eyes,  nor  half 
as  many  dimples.  Bewildered,  and  not  alto 
gether  pleased,  he  awkwardly  extended  his 
hand  to  Mr.  Chester,  with  a  conventional 
"how  do  you  do?" 

Dick  wrung  the  offered  hand  in  a  mighty 
grip  which  made  Harlan  wince.  "  I  congratu 
late  you,  Mr.  Carr,"  he  said  gallantly,  "  upon 
possessing  the  fairest  ornament  of  her  sex. 
Guess  this  letter  is  for  you,  is  n't  it  ?  I  found 
it  in  the  post-office  while  the  keeper  was  out, 
and  just  took  it.  If  it  does  n't  belong  here, 
I  '11  skip  back  with  it." 

"  Thanks,"  murmured  Harlan,  rubbing  the 
injured  hand  with  the  other.  "I — where  did 
you  come  from  ?  " 

"The  station,"  explained  Dick,  pleasantly. 
"  I  never  trace  myself  back  of  where  I  was 
last  seen." 

"  He  's  going  to  stay  with  us,  Harlan,"  put 
in  Dorothy,  wickedly,  "so  you  must  n't  let  us 
keep  you  away  from  your  work.  Come 
along,  Dick,  and  I  '11  show  you  our  cow." 

They  went  out,  followed  by  a  long,    low 


En  TUninpiteJ)  Guest 


whistle  of  astonishment  from  Harlan  which 
Dorothy's  acute  ears  did  not  miss.  Presently 
Mr.  Carr  retreated  into  the  library,  and  locked 
the  door,  but  he  did  not  work.  The  book  was 
at  a  deadlock,  half  a  paragraph  beyond  "the 
flower-like  hands  of  Elaine,"  of  which,  indeed, 
the  author  had  confessed  his  inability  to  write. 

"Dick,"  thought  Harlan.  "Mr.  Chester. 
A  young  giant  with  a  grip  like  an  octopus. 
'The  fairest  ornament  of  her  sex.'  Never, 
never  heard  of  him  before.  Some  old  flame 
of  Dorothy's,  who  has  discovered  her  where 
abouts  and  brazenly  followed  her,  even  on  her 
honeymoon." 

And  he,  Harlan,  was  absolutely  prevented 
from  speaking  of  it  by  an  unhappy  chain  of 
circumstances  which  put  him  in  a  false  light ! 
For  the  first  time  he  fully  perceived  how  a 
single  thoughtless  action  may  bind  all  one's 
future  existence. 

"Just  because  I  stroked  the  hand  of  a  dis 
tressed  damsel,"  muttered  Harlan,  "and  told 
her  I  was  married,  I  've  got  to  sit  and  see  a 
procession  of  my  wife's  old  lovers  marking 
time  here  all  Summer  !  "  In  his  fevered  fancy, 
he  already  saw  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  sur 
rounded  by  Mrs.  Carr's  former  admirers, 


Ht  tbc  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*of*Xantern 


Bn 
TOnlnviteb 

Guest 


heard  them  call  her  "Dorothy,"  and  realised 
that  there  was  not  a  single  thing  he  could  do. 

"  Unless,  of  course,"  he  added,  mentally, 
"it  gets  too  bad,  and  I  have  an  excuse  to  or 
der  'em  out.  And  then,  probably,  Dorothy 
will  tell  Elaine  to  take  her  dolls  and  go  home, 
and  the  poor  thing's  got  nowhere  to  go — no 
where  in  the  wide  world. 

"  How  would  Dorothy  like  to  be  a  lonely 
orphan,  with  no  husband,  no  friends,  and  no 
job  ?  She  would  n't  like  it  much,  but  women 
never  have  any  sympathy  for  each  other,  nor 
for  their  husbands,  either.  I  'd  give  twenty 
dollars  this  minute  not  to  have  stroked 
Elaine's  hand,  and  fifty  not  to  have  had 
Dorothy  see  it,  but  there  's  no  use  in  crying 
over  spilt  milk  nor  in  regretting  hands  that 
have  already  been  stroked." 

In  search  of  diversion,  he  opened  his  letter, 
which  was  in  answer  to  the  one  he  had  writ 
ten  some  little  time  ago,  inquiring  minutely, 
of  an  acquaintance  who  was  supposed  to  be 
successful,  just  what  the  prospects  were  for  a 
beginner  in  the  literary  craft. 

"Dear  Carr,"  the  letter  read.  "Sorry  not 
to  have  answered  before,  but  I  've  been  away 
and  things  got  mixed  up.  Would  n't  advise 


Hn  Tflninvitefc  (Buest 


anybody  but  an  enemy  to  take  up  writing  as 
a  steady  job,  but  if  you  feel  the  call,  go  in  and 
win.  You  can  make  all  the  way  from  eight 
dollars  a  year,  which  was  what  I  made  when 
I  first  struck  out,  up  to  five  thousand,  which 
was  what  I  averaged  last  year.  I  've  always 
envied  you  fellows  who  could  turn  in  your 
stuff  and  get  paid  for  it  the  following  Tues 
day.  In  my  line,  you  work  like  the  devil 
this  year  for  what  you  're  going  to  get  next, 
and  live  on  the  year  after. 

"  However,  if  you're  bitten  with  it,  there  's 
no  cure.  You  '11  see  magazine  articles  in 
stones  and  books  in  running  brooks  all  the 
rest  of  your  life.  When  you  get  your  book 
done,  I  '11  trot  you  around  to  my  publisher, 
who  enjoys  the  proud  distinction  of  being  an 
honest  one,  and  if  he  likes  your  stuff,  he'll 
take  it,  and  if  he  does  n't,  he  '11  turn  you  down 
so  pleasantly  that  you  '11  feel  as  though  he  'd 
made  you  a  present  of  something.  If  you 
think  you  've  got  genius,  forget  it,  and  re 
member  that  nothing  takes  the  place  of  hard 
work.  And,  besides,  it's  a  pretty  blamed 
poor  book  that  can't  get  itself  printed  these 
days.  "Yours  as  usual, 

"C.J." 


IRo  Cure 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe=o'*3Lantern 


Hn 

THninvitefc 

Oucst 


The  communication  was  probably  intended 
as  encouragement,  but  the  effect  was  depress 
ing,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  Harlan  had 
written  only  two  lines  more  in  his  book, 
neither  of  which  pleased  him. 

Meanwhile,  Dick  was  renewing  his  old  ac 
quaintance  with  Mrs.  Smithers,  much  to  that 
lady's  pleasure,  though  she  characteristically 
endeavoured  to  conceal  it.  She  belonged  to 
a  pious  sect  which  held  all  mirth  to  be 
ungodly. 

"Sally,"  Dick  was  saying,  "I've  dreamed 
of  your  biscuits  night  and  day  since  I  ate  the 
last  one.  Are  we  going  to  have  'em  for 
lunch  ?  " 

"No  biscuits  in  this  house  to-day,"  grum 
bled  the  deity  of  the  kitchen,  in  an  attempt  to 
be  properly  stern,  "and  as  I  've  told  you  more 
than  once,  my  name  ain't  'Sally.'  It's  Mis' 
Smithers,  that 's  wot  it  is,  and  I  '11  thank  you 
to  call  me  by  it." 

"Between  those  who  love,"  continued 
Dick,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dorothy,  who 
.stood  near  by,  appalled  at  his  daring,  "the 
best  is  none  too  good  for  common  use.  If 
my  heart  breaks  the  bonds  of  conventional 
restraint,  and  I  call  you  by  the  name  under 


an  TRnfnvitefc  (Buest  JI3 

which  you  always  appear  to  me  in  my  long-         H 
ing  dreams,  why  should  you  not  be  gracious,     x*mb  of 
and  forgive    me?     Be  kind  to  me,  Sally,  be 
just  a  little  kind,  and  throw  together  a  pan  of 
those  biscuits  in  your  own  inimitable  style  !  " 

"Run  along  with  you,  you  limb  of  Satan," 
cried  Mrs.  Smithers,  brandishing  a  floury 
spoon. 

"Come  along,  Dorothy,"  said  Dick,  laying 
a  huge  but  friendly  paw  upon  Mrs.  Carr's 
shoulder  ;  "we're  chased  out."  He  put  his 
head  back  into  the  kitchen,  however,  to  file  a 
parting  petition  for  biscuits,  which  was  un 
necessary,  for  Mrs.  Smithers  had  already 
found  her  rolling-pin  and  had  begun  to  sift  her 
flour. 

Outside,  he  duly  admired  Maud,  who  was 
chewing  the  cud  of  reflection  under  a  tree, 
created  a  panic  in  the  chicken  yard  by  lifting 
Abdul  Hamid  ignominiously  by  the  legs,  to 
see  how  heavy  he  was,  and  chased  Claudius 
Tiberius  under  the  barn. 

"  If  that  cat  turns  up  missing  some  day," 
he  said,  "  don't  blame  me.  He  looks  so  much 
like  Uncle  Ebeneezerthat  I  can't  stand  for  him." 

"There's  something  queer  about  Clau 
dius,  anyway,"  ventured  Dorothy.  "Mrs. 


Bt  tbe  Sfon  of  tbe  $ack=o'*Xantern 


Kn 

tantnvitefc 

(Buest 


Smithers  says  that  uncle  killed  him  the  week 
before  he  died,  and " 

"  Before  who  died  ?  " 

"Claudius — no,  before  uncje  died,  and  she 
buried  him,  and  he  's  come  to  life  again." 

"  Uncle,  or  Claudius  ?  " 

"Claudius,  you  goose,"  laughed  Dorothy. 

"If  I  knew  just  how  nearly  related  we 
were,"  remarked  Dick,  irrelevantly  enough, 
"  I  believe  I  'd  kiss  you.  You  look  so  pretty 
with  all  your  dimples  hung  out  and  your  hair 
blowing  in  the  wind." 

Dorothy  glanced  up,  startled,  and  inclined 
to  be  angry,  but  it  was  impossible  to  take 
offence  at  such  a  mischievous  youth  as  Dick 
was  at  that  moment.  "We're  not  related," 
she  said,  coolly,  "except  by  marriage." 

"Well,  that's  near  enough,"  returned 
Dick,  who  was  never  disposed  to  be  unduly 
critical.  "  Your  husband  is  only  related  to 
you  by  marriage.  Don't  be  such  a  prude. 
Come  to  the  waiting  arms  of  your  uncle,  or 
cousin,  or  brother-in-law,  or  whatever  it  is 
that  I  happen  to  be." 

"Go  and  kiss  your  friend  Sally  in  the 
kitchen,"  laughed  Dorothy.  "  You  have  my 
permission." 


Hn  TOninvited  (Buest 


Dick  made  a  wry  face.     "  I  don't  hanker  to 

.      .    ,,   ,  .  ,      ..,     ,    .f  .      twmeltfee 

do  it,  he  said,  "but  if  you  want  me  to,  I 
will.  I  suppose  she  is  n't  pleased  with  her 
place  and  you  want  to  make  it  more  homelike 
for  her." 

"What  relation  were  you  to  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer?"  queried  Dorothy,  curiously. 

"Uncle  and  I,"  sighed  Dick,  "  were  con 
nected  by  the  closest  ties  of  blood  and  mar 
riage.  Nobody  could  be  more  related  than 
we  were.  I  was  the  only  child  of  Aunt 
Rebecca's  sister's  husband's  sister's  husband's 
sister.  Say,  on  the  dead,  if  I  ever  bother  you 
will  you  tell  me  so  and  invite  me  to  skip  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"Shake  hands  on  it,  then;  that's  a  good 
fellow.  And  say,  did  you  say  there  was  an 
other  skirt  stopping  here  ?  " 

"  A — a  what  ?" 

"Petticoat,"  explained  Dick,  patiently; 
"mulier,  as  the  ancient  dagoes  had  it. 
They  've  been  getting  mulier  ever  since,  too. 
How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"Oh,"  answered  Dorothy.  "She's  not 
more  than  twenty  or  twenty-one."  Then, 
endeavouring  to  be  just  to  Elaine,  she  added: 
"  And  a  very  pretty  girl,  too." 


u6 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Bn 

"UninvitcS 
(Buest 


"  Lead  me  to  her,"  exclaimed  Dick  ecstatic 
ally.  "  Already  she  is  mine  !  " 

"  You  '11  see  her  at  luncheon.  There  's  the 
bell,  now." 

Mr.  Chester  was  duly  presented  to  Miss 
St.  Clair,  and  from  then  on,  appeared  to  be  on 
his  good  behaviour.  Elaine's  delicate,  fragile 
beauty  appealed  strongly  to  the  susceptible 
Dick,  and  from  the  very  beginning,  he  was 
afraid  of  her — a  dangerous  symptom,  if  he  had 
only  known  it. 

Harlan,  making  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain, 
devoted  himself  to  his  guests  impartially,  and, 
upon  the  whole,  the  luncheon  went  off  very 
well,  though  the  atmosphere  was  not  wholly 
festive. 

Afterward,  when  they  sat  down  in  the  par 
lour,  there  was  an  awkward  pause  which  no 
one  seemed  inclined  to  relieve.  At  length 
Dorothy,  mindful  of  her  duty  as  hostess, 
asked  Miss  St.  Clair  if  she  would  not  play 
something. 

Willingly  enough,  Elaine  went  to  the  melo- 
deon,  which  had  not  been  opened  since  the 
Carrs  came  to  live  at  the  Jack-o'-Lantern,  and 
lifted  the  lid.  Immediately,  however,  she  went 
off  into  hysterics,  which  were  so  violent  that 


Hn  "dninviteD  Guest 


Harlan  and  Dorothy  were  obliged  to  assist  her 
to  her  room. 

Dick  strongly  desired  to  carry  Elaine  up 
stairs,  but  was  forbidden  by  the  hampering 
conventionalities.  So  he  lounged  over  to  the 
melodeon,  somewhat  surprised  to  find  that 
"  It"  was  still  there. 

"It"  was  a  brown,  wavy,  false  front  of 
human  hair,  securely  anchored  to  the  keys 
underneath  by  a  complicated  system  of 
loops  of  linen  thread.  Pinned  to  the  top 
was  a  faded  slip  of  paper  on  which  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  had  written,  long  ago:  "Mrs.  Jud- 
son  always  kept  her  best  false  front  in  the 
melodeon.  I  do  not  desire  to  have  it  dis 
turbed. — E.  J." 

"  His  Nibs  never  could  bear  music,"  thought 
Dick,  as  he  closed  the  instrument,  little  guess 
ing  that  a  vein  of  sentiment  in  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer's  hard  nature  had  impelled  him  to  keep 
the  prosaic  melodeon  forever  sacred  to  the 
slender,  girlish  fingers  that  had  last  brought 
music  from  its  yellowed  keys. 

From  upstairs  still  came  the  sound  of  crying, 
which  was  not  altogether  to  be  wondered  at, 
considering  Miss  St.  Glair's  weak,  nervous 
condition.  Harlan  came  down,  scowling,  and 


n8 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*3Lantern 


Bn 
TOntnvitet 


took  back  the  brandy  flask,  moving  none  too 
hastily. 

"They  don't  like  Elaine,"  murmured  Dick 
to  himself,  vaguely  troubled.  "  I  wonder 
why — oh,  I  wonder  why!" 


VIII 

flDore 

Blue  as  sapphires  were  the  eyes  of  Elaine,  \n  a 
and  her  fair  cheek  was  like  that  of  an  apple 
blossom.  Set  like  a  rose  upon  pearl  was  the 
dewy,  fragrant  sweetness  of  her  mouth,  and 
her  breath  was  that  of  the  rose  itself.  Her 
hands — but  how  shall  I  write  of  the  flower- 
like  hands  of  Elaine  ?  They  seemed  all  too 
frail  to  hold  the  reins  of  her  palfrey,  much 
less  to  guide  him  along  the  rocky  road  that  lay 
before  her. 

Safely  sheltered  in  a  sunny  valley  was  the 
Castle  of  Content,  wherein  Elaine's  father 
reigned  as  Lord.  Upon  the  hills  close  at 
hand  were  the  orchards,  which  were  now  in 
bloom.  A  faint,  unearthly  sweetness  came 
with  every  passing  breeze,  and  was  wafted 
through  the  open  windows  of  the  Castle, 
where,  upon  the  upper  floor,  Elaine  was  wont 
to  sit  with  her  maids  at  the  tapestry  frames. 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


But,  of  late,  a  strange  restlessness  was 
upon  her,  and  the  wander-lust  surged  through 
her  veins. 

"My  father,"  she  said,  "I  am  fain  to 
leave  the  Castle  of  Content,  and  set  out  upon 
the  Heart's  Quest.  Among  the  gallant  knights 
of  thy  retinue,  there  is  none  whom  I  would 
wed,  and  it  is  seemly  that  I  should  set  out  to 
find  my  lord  and  master,  for  behold,  father, 
as  thou  knowest,  twenty  years  and  more  have 
passed  over  my  head,  and  my  beauty  hath  be 
gun  to  fade." 

The  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Content  smiled 
in  amusement,  that  Elaine,  the  beautiful, 
should  fancy  her  charms  were  on  the  wane. 
But  he  was  ever  eager  to  gratify  the  slightest 
wish  of  this  only  child  of  his,  and  so  he  gave 
his  ready  consent. 

"Indeed,  Elaine,"  he  answered,  "and  if 
thou  choosest,  thou  shalt  go,  but  these  despised 
knights  shall  attend  thee,  and  also  our  new 
fool,  who  hath  come  from  afar  to  make  merry 
in  our  court.  His  motley  is  of  an  unfamiliar 
pattern,  his  quips  and  jests  savour  not  so  much 
of  antiquity,  and  his  songs  are  pleasing.  He 
shall  lighten  the  rigours  of  thy  journey  and 
cheer  thee  when  thou  art  sad. ' ' 


/IDore 

"But,  father,  I  do  not  choose  to  have  the 
fool. ' ' 

' '  Say  no  more,  Elaine,  for  if  thou  goest, 
thou  shalt  have  the  fool.  It  is  most  fitting 
that  in  thy  retinue  there  shouldst  be  more 
than  one  to  wear  the  cap  and  bells,  and  it  is  in 
my  mind  to  consider  this  quest  of  thine  some 
what  more  than  mildly  foolish.  Unnumbered 
brave  and  faithful  knights  are  at  thy  feet  and 
yet  thou  canst  not  choose,  but  must  needs  fare 
onward  in  search  of  a  stranger  to  be  thy  lord 
and  master. ' ' 

Elaine  raised  her  hand.  "As  thou  wilt, 
father, ' '  she  said,  submissively.  "  Thou  canst 
not  understand  the  way  of  a  maid.  Bid  thy 
fool  to  prepare  himself  quickly  for  a  long 
journey,  since  we  start  at  sunset. ' ' 

"  But  why  at  sunset,  daughter  ?  The  way 
is  long.  Mayst  not  thy  mission  wait  until 
sunrise  ?  ' ' 

"  Nay,  father,  for  it  is  my  desire  to  sleep  to 
night  upon  the  ground.  The  tapestried  walls 
of  my  chamber  stifle  me  and  I  would  fain  lie  in 
the  fresh  air  with  only  the  green  leaves  for  my 
canopy  and  the  stars  for  my  taper  lights." 

"  As  thou  wilt,  Elaine,  but  my  heart  is  sad  at 
the  prospect  of  losing  thee.  Thou  art  my  only 


Ube 


of  a 
dbaft 


122 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


child,  the  image  of  thy  dead  mother,  and  my 
old  eyes  shall  be  misty  for  the  sight  of  thee 
long  before  my  gallant  knights  bring  thee  back 
again.  '  ' 

"So  shall  I  gain  some  hours,  father/'  she 
answered.  "  Perhaps  my  sunset  journeying 
shall  bring  my  return  a  day  nearer.  Cross 
me  not  in  this  wish,  father,  for  it  is  my  fancy 
to  go." 

So  it  was  that  the  cavalcade  was  made  ready 
and  Elaine  and  her  company  left  the  Castle  of 
Content  at  sunset.  Two  couriers  rode  at  the 
head,  to  see  that  the  way  was  clear,  and  with 
a  silver  bugle  to  warn  travellers  to  stand  aside 
until  the  Lady  Elaine  and  her  attendants  had 
passed. 

Upon  a  donkey,  caparisoned  in  a  most  amus 
ing  manner,  rode  Le  Jongleur,  the  new  fool  of 
whom  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Content  had 
spoken.  His  motley,  as  has  been  said,  was  of 
an  unfamiliar  pattern,  but  was  none  the  less 
striking,  being  made  wholly  of  scarlet  and  gold. 
The  Lady  Elaine  could  not  have  guessed  that 
it  was  assumed  as  a  tribute  to  the  trappings  of 
her  palfrey,  for  Le  Jongleur's  heart  was  most 
humble  and  loyal,  though  leaping  now  with  the 
joy  of  serving  the  fair  Lady  Elaine. 


/IDore 

The  Lord  of  Content  stood  at  the  portal  of 
the  Castle  to  bid  the  retinue  Godspeed,  and  as 
the  cymbals  crashed  out  a  sounding  farewell, 
he  impatiently  -wiped  away  the  mist,  which 
already  had  clouded  his  "vision.  Long  he 
waited,  straining  his  eyes  toward  the  distant 
cliffs,  where,  one  by  one,  the  company  rode 
upward.  The  valley  was  in  shadow,  but 
the  long  light  lay  upon  the  hills,  changing  the 
crags  to  a  wonder  of  purple  and  gold.  To 
him,  too,  came  the  breath  of  apple  bloom,  but 
it  brought  no  joy  to  his  troubled  heart. 

What  dangers  lay  in  wait  for  Elaine  as  she 
fared  forth  upon  her  wild  quest?  What 
monsters  haunted  the  primeval  forests  through 
which  her  path  must  lie  ?  And  where  was  the 
knight  who  should  claim  her  innocent  and 
maidenly  heart?  At  this  thought,  the  Lord 
of  Content  shuddered,  then  was  quickly 
ashamed. 

"  I  am  as  foolish,"  he  muttered,  "  as  he  in 
motley,  who  rides  at  the  side  of  Elaine. 
Surely  my  daughter,  the  child  of  a  soldier, 
can  make  no  unworthy  choice." 

The  cavalcade  had  reached  the  summit  of 
the  cliff,  now,  and  at  the  brink,  turned  back. 
The  cymbals  and  the  bugles  pealed  forth 


124 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


flDore 


another  sounding  farewell  to  the  Lord  of  the 
Castle  of  Content,  whom  Elaine  well  knew  was 
waiting  in  the  shadow  of  the  portal  till  her 
company  should  be  entirely  lost  to  sight. 

The  last  light  shone  upon  the  wonderful 
mass  of  gold  which  rippled  to  her  waist,  un 
bound,  from  beneath  her  close-fitting  scarlet 
cap,  and  gave  her  an  unearthly  beauty.  Le 
Jongleur  held  aloft  his  bauble,  making  it  to 
nod  in  merry  fashion,  but  the  Lord  of  Content 
did  not  see,  his  eyes  being  fixed  upon  Elaine. 
She  waved  her  hand  to  him,  but  he  could  not 
answer,  for  his  shoulders  were  shaking  with 
grief,  nor,  indeed,  across  the  merciless  dis 
tance  that  lay  between,  could  he  guess  at 
Elaine's  whispered  prayer:  "Dear  Heavenly 
Father,  keep  thou  my  earthly  father  safe  and 
happy,  till  his  child  conies  back  again." 

Over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  out  upon  a 
wide  plain  they  fared.  Ribbons  of  glorious 
colour  streamed  from  the  horizon  to  the  %enith, 
and  touched  to  flame  the  cymbals  and  the 
bugles  and  the  trappings  of  the  horses  and  the 
shields  of  the  knights.  Piercingly  sweet,  across 
the  fields  of  blowing  clover,  came  the  even  song 
of  a  feathered  chorister,  and — what  on  earth 
was  that  noise  ? 


flDore 

Harlan  went  to  the  window  impatiently, 
like  one  wakened  from  a  dream  by  a  blind 
impulse  of  action. 

The  village  stage,  piled  high  with  trunks, 
was  at  his  door,  and  from  the  cavernous 
depths  of  the  vehicle,  shrieks  of  juvenile  ter 
ror  echoed  and  re-echoed  unceasingly.  Mr. 
Blake,  driving,  merely  waited  in  supreme 
unconcern. 

"What  in  the  hereafter,"  muttered  Harlan, 
savagely.  "More  old  lovers  of  Dorothy's, 
I  suppose,  or  else  the  —  Good  Lord,  it 's 
twins! " 

A  child  of  four  or  five  fell  out  of  the  stage, 
followed  by  another,  who  lit  unerringly  on 
top  of  the  prostrate  one.  In  the  meteoric 
moment  of  the  fall,  Harlan  had  seen  that  the 
two  must  have  discovered  America  at  about 
the  same  time,  for  they  were  exactly  alike, 
making  due  allowance  for  the  slight  difference 
made  by  masculine  and  feminine  attire. 

An  enormous  doll,  which  to  Harlan's 
troubled  sight  first  appeared  to  be  an  infant 
in  arms,  was  violently  ejected  from  the  stage 
and  added  to  the  human  pile  which  was 
wriggling  and  weeping  upon  the  gravelled 
walk.  A  cub  of  seven  next  leaped  out, 


Bt  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


whistling  shrilly,  then  came  a  querulous, 
wailing,  feminine  voice  from  the  interior. 

"  Willie,"  it  whined,  "  how  can  you  act  so  ? 
Help  your  little  brother  and  sister  up  and  get 
Rebbie's  doll." 

To  this  the  lad  paid  no  attention  whatever, 
and  the  mother  herself  assorted  the  weeping 
pyramid  on  the  walk.  Harlan  ran  down-stairs, 
feeling  that  the  hour  had  come  to  defend  his 
hearthstone  from  outsiders.  Dick  and  Doro 
thy  were  already  at  the  door. 

"Foundlings'  Home,"  explained  Dick, 
briefly,  with  a  wink  at  Harlan.  "They're 
late  this  year." 

Dorothy  was  speechless  with  amazement 
and  despair.  Before  Harlan  had  begun  to 
think  connectedly,  one  of  the  twins  had  darted 
into  the  house  and  bumped  its  head  on  the 
library  door,  thereupon  making  the  Jack-o'- 
Lantern  hideous  with  much  lamentation. 

The  mother,  apparently  tired  out,  came  in  as 
though  she  had  left  something  of  great  value 
there  and  had  come  to  get  it,  pausing  only 
to  direct  Harlan  to  pay  the  stage  driver,  and 
have  her  trunks  taken  into  the  rooms  open 
ing  off  the  dining-room  on  the  south  side. 

Willie  took  a  mouth-organ  out  of  his  pocket, 


127 


and  rendered  a  hitherto  unknown  air  upon  it 
with  inimitable  vigour.  In  the  midst  of  the 
confusion,  Claudius  Tiberius  had  the  misfor 
tune  to  appear,  and,  immediately  perceiving 
his  mistake,  whisked  under  the  sofa,  from 
whence  the  other  twin  determinedly  haled 
him,  using  the  handle  which  Nature  had  evi 
dently  intended  for  that  purpose. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me,"  demanded  Mrs. 
Carr,  when  she  could  make  herself  heard, 
"  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  mother 
of  the  twins,  coldly.  "Were  you  addressing 
me  ?" 

"I  was,"  returned  Mrs.  Carr,  to  Dick's 
manifest  delight.  "I  desire  to  know  why 
you  have  come  to  my  house,  uninvited,  and 
made  all  this  disturbance." 

"  The  idea!  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  trem 
bling  with  anger.  "  Will  you  please  send  for 
Mr.  Judson  ?  " 

"Mr.  Judson,"  said  Dorothy,  icily,  "has 
been  dead  for  some  time.  This  house  is  the 
property  of  my  husband." 

"Indeed !  And  who  may  your  husband  be  ?" 
The  tone  of  the  question  did  not  indicate  even 
faint  interest  in  the  subject  under  discussion. 


Confusion 


128 


tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


Dorothy  turned,  but  Harlan  had  long  since 
beat  an  ignominious  retreat,  closely  followed 
by  Dick,  whose  idea,  as  audibly  expressed, 
was  that  the  women  be  allowed  to  "  fight 
it  out  by  themselves." 

"  I  can  readily  understand,"  went  on  Doro 
thy,  with  a  supreme  effort  at  self-control, 
"that  you  have  made  a  mistake  for  which 
you  are  not  in  any  sense  to  blame.  You  are 
tired  from  your  journey,  and  you  are  quite 
welcome  to  stay  until  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  shrilled  the  woman.  "I 
guess  you  don't  know  who  I  am!  I  am  Mrs. 
Holmes,  Rebecca  Judson's  own  cousin,  and  1 
have  spent  the  Summer  here  ever  since  Re 
becca  was  married!  I  guess  if  Ebeneezer 
knew  you  were  practically  ordering  his  wife's 
own  cousin  out  of  his  house,  he  'd  rise  from 
his  grave  to  haunt  you!  " 

Dorothy  fancied  that  Uncle  Ebeneezer's 
portrait  moved  slightly.  Aunt  Rebecca  still 
surveyed  the  room  from  the  easel,  gentle, 
sweet-faced,  and  saintly.  There  was  no  re 
semblance  whatever  between  Aunt  Rebecca 
and  the  sallow,  hollow-cheeked,  wide-eyed 
termagant,  with  a  markedly  receding  chin, 
who  stood  before  Mrs.  Carr  and  defied  her. 


flDore 


129 


"This  is  my  husband's  house,"  suggested 
Dorothy,  pertinently. 

"Then  let  your  husband  do  the  talking," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Holmes,  sarcastically.  "If he 
was  sure  it  was  his,  I  guess  he  would  n't 
have  run  away.  I  've  always  had  my  own 
rooms  here,  and  I  intend  to  go  and  come  as  I 
please,  as  I  always  have  done.  You  can't 
make  me  believe  that  Ebeneezer  gave  my 
apartments  to  your  husband,  nor  him  either, 
and  I  would  n't  advise  any  of  you  to  try  it." 

Sounds  of  fearful  panic  came  from  the 
chicken  yard,  and  Dorothy  rushed  out,  swiftly 
laying  avenging  hands  on  the  disturber  of  the 
peace.  One  of  the  twins  was  chasing  Abdul 
Hamid  around  the  coop  with  a  lath,  as  he 
explained  between  sobs,  "to  make  him  lay." 
Mrs.  Holmes  bore  down  upon  Dorothy  before 
any  permanent  good  had  been  done. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  cried.  "How 
dare  you  lay  hands  on  my  child!  Come, 
Ebbie,  come  to  mamma.  Bless  his  little  heart, 
he  shall  chase  the  chickens  if  he  wants  to,  so 
there,  there.  Don't  cry,  Ebbie.  Mamma  will 
get  you  another  lath  and  you  shall  play  with 
the  chickens  all  the  afternoon.  There,  there !  " 

Harlan  appeared   at  this   juncture,  and  in 


Soun&s 

of  fearful 

panic 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


a  few  quiet,  well-chosen  words  told  Mrs. 
Holmes  that  the  chicken  coop  was  his  prop 
erty,  and  that  neither  now  nor  at  any  other 
time  should  any  one  enter  it  without  his  ex 
press  permission. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  remarked  Mrs.  Holmes, 
still  soothing  the  unhappy  twin.  "  How 
high  and  mighty  we  are  when  we  're  living 
off  our  poor  dead  uncle's  bounty!  Telling 
his  wife's  own  cousin  what  she  's  to  do,  and 
what  she  is  n't!  Upon  my  word  !  " 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Holmes  retired  to  the 
house,  her  pace  hastened  by  howls  from  the 
other  twin,  who  was  in  trouble  with  her  older 
brother  somewhere  in  her  "  apartment." 

Dorothy  looked  at  Harlan,  undecided 
whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry.  "  Poor  little 
woman,"  he  said,  softly;  "don't  you  fret. 
We  '11  have  them  out  of  the  house  no  later 
than  to-morrow." 

"All  of  them?  "asked  Dorothy,  eagerly, 
as  Miss  St.  Clair  strolled  into  the  front  yard. 

Harlan's  brow  clouded  and  he  shifted  uneas 
ily  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  '  '  I  don't  know,  " 
he  said,  slowly,  "whether  I've  got  nerve 
enough  to  order  a  woman  out  of  my  house 
or  not.  Let  's  wait  and  see  what  happens." 


flDore 

A  sob  choked  Dorothy,  and  she  ran  swiftly 
into  the  house,  fortunately  meeting  no  one  on 
her  way  to  her  room.  Dick  ventured  out  of 
the  barn  and  came  up  to  Harlan,  who  was 
plainly  perplexed. 

"Very,  very  mild  arrival,"  commented  Mr. 
Chester,  desiring  to  put  his  host  at  his  ease. 
I  've  never  known  'em  to  come  so  peacefully 
as  they  have  to-day.  Usually  there  's  more  or 
less  disturbance." 

"  Disturbance,"  repeated  Harlan.  "Haven't 
we  had  a  disturbance  to-day?" 

"We  have  not,"  answered  Dick,  placidly. 
"Wait  till  young  Ebeneezer  and  Rebecca  get 
more  accustomed  to  their  surroundings,  and 
then  you  '11  have  a  Fourth  of  July  every 
day,  with  Christmas,  Thanksgiving,  and  St. 
Patrick's  Day  thrown  in.  Willie  is  the  worst 
little  terror  that  ever  went  unlicked,  and  the 
twins  come  next." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  understand  children," 
remarked  Harlan,  with  a  patronising  air,  and 
more  from  a  desire  to  disagree  with  Dick  than 
from  anything  else.  "  I've  always  liked  them. " 

"  If  you  have,"  commented  Dick,  with  a 
knowing  chuckle,  "you're  in  a  fair  way  to 
get  cured  of  it." 


IPerg 


Hrrlval 


132         Ht  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*%antern 

/Bore  "Tell  me  about  these  people,"  said  Harlan, 

ignoring  the  speech,  and  dominated  once  more 
by  healthy  human  curiosity.  "Who  are  they 
and  where  do  they  come  from  ?" 

"They're  dwellers  from  the  infernal  re 
gions,"  explained  Dick,  with  an  air  of  truthful 
ness,  "  and  they  came  from  there  because  the 
old  Nick  turned  'em  out.  They  were  upset- 
ing  things  and  giving  the  place  a  bad  name. 
Mrs.  Holmes  says  she  's  Aunt  Rebecca's  cous 
in,  but  nobody  knows  whether  she  is  or  not. 
She  's  come  here  every  Summer  since  Aunt 
Rebecca  died,  and  poor  old  uncle  could  n't 
help  himself.  He  hinted  more  than  once  that 
he  'd  enjoy  her  absence  if  she  could  be  moved 
to  make  herself  scarce,  but  it  had  no  more 
effect  than  a  snowflake  would  in  the  place  she 
came  from.  The  most  he  could  do  was  to 
build  a  wing  on  the  house  with  a  separate 
kitchen  and  dining-room  in  it,  and  take  his 
own  meals  in  the  library,  with  the  door  bolted. 

"Willie  is  a  Winter  product  and  Judson 
Centre  is  n't  a  pleasant  place  in  the  cold 
months,  but  the  twins  were  born  here,  five 
years  ago  this  Summer.  They  came  in  the 
night,  but  did  n't  make  any  more  trouble  then 
than  they  have  every  day  since." 


flDore 


"  What  would  you  do  "  asked  Harlan,  after 
a  thoughtful  silence,  "  if  you  were  in  my 
place  ?" 

"I'd  be  tickled  to  death  because  a  kind 
Providence  had  married  me  to  Dorothy  in 
stead  of  to  Mrs.  Holmes.  Poor  old  Holmes 
is  in  his  well-earned  grave." 

With  great  dignity,  Harlan  walked  into  the 
house,  but  Dick,  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  did  not  guess  that  his  host  was 
offended. 

After  the  first  excitement  was  over,  com 
parative  peace  settled  down  upon  the  Jack-o'- 
Lantern.  Mrs.  Holmes  decided  the  question 
of  where  she  should  eat,  by  setting  four  more 
places  at  the  table  when  Mrs.  Smithers's  back 
was  turned.  Dorothy  did  not  appear  at  lunch 
eon,  and  Mrs.  Smithers  performed  her  duties 
with  such  pronounced  ungraciousness  that 
Elaine  felt  as  though  something  was  about  to 
explode. 

A  long  sleep,  born  of  nervous  exhaustion, 
came  at  last  to  Dorothy's  relief.  When  she 
awoke,  it  was  night  and  the  darkness  dazed 
her  at  first.  She  sat  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes, 
wondering  whether  she  had  been  dead,  or 
merely  ill. 


Compara* 
tive  peace 


Ht  tbe  Sign  oftbe  3acfe*o'*Xantem 


There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  Jack-o'-Lan- 
tern,  and  the  events  of  the  day  seemed  like 
some  hideous  nightmare  which  waking  had 
put  to  rout.  She  bathed  her  face  in  cool 
water,  then  went  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

A  lantern  moved  back  and  forth  under  the 
trees  in  the  orchard,  and  a  tall,  dark  figure, 
armed  with  a  spade,  accompanied  it.  "It's 
Harlan,"  thought  Dorothy.  "I'll  go  down 
and  see  what  he  's  burying." 

But  it  was  only  Mrs.  Smithers,  who  ap 
peared  much  startled  when  she  saw  her  mis 
tress  at  her  side. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  demanded  Dorothy, 
seeing  that  Mrs.  Smithers  had  dug  a  hole  at 
least  a  foot  and  a  half  each  way. 

"Just  a-satisfyin'  myself,"  explained  the 
handmaiden,  with  a  note  of  triumph  in  her 
voice,  "about  that  there  cat.  'Ere's  where  I 
buried  'im,  and  'ere's  where  there  ain't  no  signs 
of  'is  dead  body.  'E  's  come  back  to  'aunt  us, 
that  's  wot  'e  'as,  and  your  uncle  '11  be  the 
next." 

"Don't  be  so  foolish,"  snapped  Dorothy. 
"  You  've  forgotten  the  place,  that  's  all,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  hear  any  more  of  this  nonsense.  " 

"'Oo  was  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Smithers,  "as 


flDore 

come  out  of  a  warm  bed  at  midnight  to  see  as 
if  folks  wot  was  diggin'  for  cats  found  any- 
think  ?  T  war  n't  me,  Miss,  that 's  wot  it 
war  n't,  and  I  take  it  that  them  as  follers  is 
as  nonsensical  as  them  wot  digs.  Anyhow, 
Miss,  'ere  's  where  'e  was  buried,  and  'ere  's 
where  'e  ain't  now.  You  can  think  wot  you 
likes,  that's  wot  you  can." 

Claudius  Tiberius  suddenly  materialised  out 
of  the  surrounding  darkness,  and  after  sniff 
ing  at  the  edge  of  the  hole,  jumped  in  to  in 
vestigate. 

"You  see  that,  Miss?"  quavered  Mrs. 
Smithers.  "  'E  knows  where  'e  's  been,  and 
'e  knows  where  'e  ain't  now." 

"Mrs.  Smithers,"  said  Dorothy,  sternly, 
"will  you  kindly  fill  up  that  hole  and  come 
into  the  house  and  go  to  bed  ?  I  don't  want 
to  be  kept  awake  all  night." 

"You  don't  need  to  be  kept  awake,  Miss," 
said  Mrs.  Smithers,  slowly  filling  up  the  hole. 
"  The  worst  is  'ere  already  and  wot 's  comin' 
is  comin'  anyway,  and  besides,"  she  added, 
as  an  afterthought,  "there  ain't  a  blessed  one 
of  'em  come  'ere  at  night  since  your  uncle 
fixed  over  the  house." 


for  Cats 


i36 


Hnotber 


IX 


Hnotber 

FOR  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Mrs.  Carr 
fully  comprehended  the  sensations  of  a 
wild  animal  caught  in  a  trap.  In  her  present 
painful  predicament,  she  was  absolutely  help 
less,  and  she  realised  it.  It  was  Marian's 
house,  as  he  had  said,  but  so  powerful  and 
penetrating  was  the  personality  of  the  dead 
man  that  she  felt  as  though  it  was  still  largely 
the  property  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer. 

The  portrait  in  the  parlour  gave  her  no 
light  upon  the  subject,  though  she  studied  it 
earnestly.  The  face  was  that  of  an  old  man, 
soured  and  embittered  by  what  Life  had 
brought  him,  who  seemed  now  to  have  a 
peculiarly  malignant  aspect.  Dorothy  fancied, 
in  certain  morbid  moments,  that  Uncle  Eben 
eezer,  from  some  safe  place,  was  keenly  rel 
ishing  the  whole  situation. 

Upon  her  soul,  too,  lay  heavily  that  ancient 
Law  of  the  House,  which  demands  unfailing 


Bnotber 

courtesy  to  the  stranger  within  our  gates. 
Just  why  the  eating  of  our  bread  and  salt  by 
some  undesired  guest  should  exert  any  par 
ticular  charm  of  immunity,  has  long  been  an 
open  question,  but  the  Law  remains. 

She  felt,  dimly,  that  the  end  was  not  yet — 
that  still  other  strangers  were  coming  to  the 
Jack-o'-Lantern  for  indefinite  periods.  She 
saw,  now,  why  wing  after  wing  had  been 
added  to  the  house,  but  could  not  understand 
the  odd  arrangement  of  the  front  windows. 
Through  some  inner  sense  of  loyalty  to  Uncle 
Ebeneezer,  she  forebore  to  question  either 
Mrs.  Smithers  or  Dick  —  two  people  who 
could  probably  have  given  her  some  light  on 
the  subject.  She  had  gathered,  however, 
from  hints  dropped  here  and  there,  as  well 
as  from  the  overpowering  evidence  of  recent 
events,  that  a  horde  of  relatives  swarmed  each 
Summer  at  the  queer  house  on  the  hilltop  and 
remained  until  late  Autumn. 

Harlan  said  nothing,  and  nowadays  Doro 
thy  saw  very  little  of  him.  Most  of  the  time 
he  was  at  work  in  the  library,  or  else  taking 
long,  solitary  rambles  through  the  surrounding 
country.  At  meals  he  was  moody  and  taciturn, 
his  book  obliterating  all  else  from  his  mind. 


Che  law 
of  tbe 
fjouae 


138 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Bnotber 


He  doubtless  knew,  subconsciously,  that 
his  house  was  disturbed  by  alien  elements, 
but  he  dwelt  too  securely  in  the  upper  regions 
to  be  troubled  by  the  obvious  fact.  Once  in 
the  library,  with  every  door  securely  bolted, 
he  could  afford  to  laugh  at  the  tumult  outside, 
if,  indeed,  he  should  ever  become  aware  of  its 
existence.  The  children  might  make  the  very 
air  vocal  with  their  howls,  Elaine  might  have 
hysterics,  Mrs.  Smithers  render  hymns  in  a 
cracked,  squeaky  voice,  and  Dick  whistle 
eternally,  but  Harlan  was  in  a  strange  new 
country,  with  a  beautiful  lady,  a  company  of 
gallant  knights,  and  a  jester. 

The  rest  was  all  unreal.  He  seemed  to  see 
people  through  a  veil,  to  hear  what  they  said 
without  fully  comprehending  it,  and  to  walk 
through  his  daily  life  blindly,  without  any 
sort  of  emotion.  Worst  of  all,  Dorothy 
herself  seemed  detached  and  dream-like.  He 
saw  that  her  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  sad, 
but  it  affected  him  not  at  all.  He  had  yet  to 
learn  that  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  a  price 
must  inevitably  be  paid,  and  that  the  sudden 
change  of  all  his  loved  realities  to  hazy  visions 
was  the  terrible  penalty  of  his  craft. 

Yet  there  was  compensation,  which  is  also 


Hnotber 

inevitable.  To  him,  the  book  was  vital, 
reaching  down  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
world.  Fancy  took  his  work,  and,  to  the  eyes 
of  its  creator,  made  it  passing  fair.  At  times 
he  would  sit  for  an  hour  or  more,  nibbling  at 
the  end  of  his  pencil,  only  negatively  con 
scious,  like  one  who  stares  fixedly  at  a  blank 
wall.  Presently,  Elaine  and  her  company 
would  come  back  again,  and  he  would  go  on 
with  them,  writing  down  only  what  he  saw 
and  felt. 

Chapter  after  chapter  was  written  and 
tossed  feverishly  aside.  The  words  beat  in 
his  pulses  like  music,  each  one  with  its  own 
particular  significance.  In  return  for  his  per 
sonal  effacement  came  moments  of  supremest 
joy,  when  his  whole  world  was  aflame  with 
light,  and  colour,  and  sound,  and  his  physical 
body  fairly  shook  with  ecstasy. 

Little  did  he  know  that  the  Cup  was  in  his 
hands,  and  that  he  was  draining  it  to  the  very 
dregs  of  bitterness.  For  this  temporary  in 
toxication,  he  must  pay  in  every  hour  of  his 
life  to  come.  Henceforward  he  was  set  apart 
from  his  fellows,  painfully  isolated,  eternally 
alone.  He  should  have  friends,  but  only  for 
the  hour.  The  stranger  in  the  street  should 


140 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe.o'*Xantern 


another  be  the  same  to  him  as  one  he  had  known  for 
many  years,  and  he  should  be  equally  ready, 
at  any  moment,  to  cast  either  aside.  With  a 
quick,  merciless  insight,  like  the  knife  of  a  sur 
geon  used  without  an  anaesthetic,  he  should 
explore  the  inmost  recesses  of  every  person 
ality  with  which  he  came  in  contact,  invol 
untarily,  and  find  himself  interested  only 
as  some  new  trait  or  capacity  was  revealed. 
Calm  and  emotionless,  urged  by  some  hidden 
power,  he  should  try  each  individual  to  see 
of  what  he  was  made  ;  observing  the  man 
under  all  possible  circumstances,  and  at  times 
enmeshing  new  circumstances  about  him.  He 
should  sacrifice  himself  continually  if  by  so 
doing  he  could  find  the  deep  roots  of  the 
other  man's  selfishness,  and,  conversely,  be 
utterly  selfish  if  necessary  to  discover  the 
other's  power  of  self-sacrifice. 

Unknowingly,  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  man 
and  had  become  a  ferret.  It  was  no  light  pay 
ment  exacted  in  return  for  the  pleasure  of  writ 
ing  about  Elaine.  He  had  the  ability  to  live  in 
any  place  or  century  he  pleased,  but  he  had 
paid  for  it  by  putting  his  present  reality  upon 
precisely  the  same  footing.  Detachment  was 
his  continually.  Henceforth  he  was  a  spec- 


Hnotber 

tator  merely,  without  any  particular  concern 
in  what  passed  before  his  eyes.  Some  people 
he  should  know  at  a  glance,  others  in  a  week, 
a  month,  or  a  year.  Across  the  emptiness 
between  them,  some  one  should  clasp  his 
hand,  yet  share  no  more  his  inner  life  than 
one  who  lies  beside  a  dreamer  and  thinks 
thus  to  know  where  the  other  wanders  on 
the  strange  trails  of  sleep. 

In  the  dregs  of  the  Cup  lay  the  potential 
power  to  cast  off  his  present  life  as  a  mollusk 
leaves  his  shell,  and  as  completely  forget  it. 
For  Love,  and  Death,  and  Pain  are  only  sym 
bols  to  him  who  is  enslaved  by  the  pen. 
Moreover,  he  suffers  always  the  pangs  of  an 
unsatisfied  hunger,  the  exquisite  torture  of  an 
unappeased  and  unappeasable  thirst,  for  some 
thing  which,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  hovers 
ever  above  and  beyond  him,  past  the  power 
of  words  to  interpret  or  express. 

It  is  often  reproachfully  said  that  one 
"  makes  copy  "  of  himself  and  his  friends — 
that  nothing  is  too  intimately  sacred  to  be 
seized  upon  and  dissected  in  print.  Not  so 
long  ago,  it  was  said  that  a  certain  man 
was  "botanising  on  his  mother's  grave,"  a 
pardonable  confusion,  perhaps,  of  facts  and 


141 


f  n  tbe 
Dregs  of 
tbe  Cup 


142 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tfoe  3acfc*o'*%antern 


Hnotbec  realities.  The  bitter  truth  is  that  the  writer 
lives  his  books — and  not  much  else.  From 
title  to  colophon,  he  escapes  no  pang, 
misses  no  joy.  The  life  of  the  book  is  his 
from  beginning  to  end.  At  the  close  of  it, 
he  has  lived  what  his  dream  people  have  lived 
and  borne  the  sorrows  of  half  a  dozen  entire 
lifetimes,  mercilessly  concentrated  into  the  few 
short  months  of  writing. 

One  by  one,  his  former  pleasures  vanish. 
Even  the  divine  consolation  of  books  is  partly 
if  not  wholly  gone.  Behind  the  printed 
page,  he  sees  ever  the  machinery  of  composi 
tion,  the  preparation  for  climax,  the  repetition 
in  its  proper  place,  the  introduction  and  inter 
weaving  of  major  and  minor,  of  theme  and 
contrast.  For  the  fine,  glowing  fancy  of  the 
other  man  has  not  appeared  in  his  book,  and 
to  the  eye  of  the  fellow-craftsman  only  the 
mechanism  is  there.  Mask-like,  the  author 
stands  behind  his  Punch-and-Judy  box,  twitch 
ing  the  strings  that  move  his  marionettes, 
heedless  of  the  fact  that  in  his  audience  there 
must  be  a  few  who  know  him  surely  for  what 
he  is. 

If  only  the  transfiguring  might  of  the  Vision 
could  be  put  into  print,  there  would  be  little 


Hnotber  i43 

in  the  world  save  books.  Happily  heedless 
of  the  mockery  of  it  all,  Marian  laboured  on, 
destined  fully  to  sense  his  entire  payment 
much  later,  suffer  vicariously  for  a  few  hours 
on  account  of  it,  then  to  forget. 

Dorothy,  meanwhile,  was  learning  a  hard 
lesson.  Marian's  changeless  preoccupation 
hurt  her  cruelly,  but,  woman-like,  she  consid 
ered  it  a  manifestation  of  genius  and  en 
deavoured  to  be  proud  accordingly.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  her  that  there  could  ever  be 
anything  in  Marian's  thought  into  which  she 
was  not  privileged  to  go.  She  had  thought  of 
marriage  as  a  sort  of  miraculous  welding  of 
two  individualities  into  one,  and  was  per 
ceiving  that  it  changed  nothing  very  much; 
that  souls  went  on  their  way  unaltered.  She 
saw,  too,  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  wide 
world  who  could  share  her  every  mood  and 
tense,  that  ultimately  each  one  of  us  lives  and 
dies  alone,  within  the  sanctuary  of  his  own 
inner  self,  cheered  only  by  some  passing  mood 
of  friend  or  stranger,  which  chances  to  chime 
with  his. 

It  was  Dick  who,  blindly  enough,  helped 
her  over  many  a  hard  place,  and  quickened 
her  sense  of  humour  into  something  upon 


144          Ht  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 

Hnotber  which  she  might  securely  lean.  He  was  too 
young  and  too  much  occupied  with  the  obvi 
ous  to  look  further,  but  he  felt  that  Dorothy 
was  troubled,  and  that  it  was  his  duty,  as 
a  man  and  a  gentleman,  to  cheer  her  up. 

Privately,  he  considered  Harlan  an  amiable 
kind  of  a  fool,  who  shut  himself  up  needlessly 
in  a  musty  library  when  he  might  be  outdoors, 
or  talking  with  a  charming  woman,  or  both. 
When  he  discovered  that  Harlan  had  hitherto 
earned  his  living  by  writing  and  hoped  to 
continue  doing  it,  he  looked  upon  his  host 
with  profound  pity.  Books,  to  Dick,  were 
among  the  things  which  kept  life  from  being 
wholly  pleasant  and  agreeable.  He  had  gone 
through  college  because  otherwise  he  would 
have  been  separated  from  his  friends,  and  be 
cause  a  small  legacy  from  a  distant  relative, 
who  had  considerately  died  at  an  opportune 
moment,  enabled  him  to  pay  for  his  tuition 
and  his  despised  books. 

"  I  was  never  a  pig,  though,"  he  explained 
to  Dorothy,  in  a  confidential  moment. 
"There  was  one  chump  in  our  class  who 
wanted  to  know  all  there  was  in  the  book, 
and  made  himself  sick  trying  to  cram  it  in. 
All  of  a  sudden,  he  graduated.  He  left  college 


Hnotber  i45 

feet  first,  three  on  a  side,  with  the  class  walk- 

Spicute 

ing  slow  behind  him.  I  never  was  like  that.  I 
was  sort  of  an  epicure  when  it  came  to  know 
ledge,  tasting  delicately  here  and  there,  and 
never  greedy.  Why,  as  far  back  as  when 
I  was  studying  algebra,  I  nobly  refused  to 
learn  the  binomial  theorem.  I  just  read  it 
through  once,  hastily,  like  taking  one  sniff  at 
a  violet,  and  then  let  it  alone.  The  other  fel 
lows  fairly  gorged  themselves  with  it,  but  I 
did  n't — I  had  too  much  sense." 

When  Mr.  Chester  had  been  there  a  week, 
he  gave  Dorothy  two  worn  and  crumpled 
two-dollar  bills. 

"What  's  this?"  she  asked,  curiously. 
"  Where  did  you  find  it  ?  " 

'"Find  it'  is  good,"  laughed  Dick.  "I 
earned  it,  my  dear  lady,  in  hard  and  uncon 
genial  toil.  It 's  my  week's  board." 

"  You  're  not  going  to  pay  any  board  here. 
You  're  a  guest." 

"Not  on  your  life.  You  don't  suppose 
I  'm  going  to  sponge  my  keep  off  anybody, 
do  you  ?  I  paid  Uncle  Ebeneezer  board  right 
straight  along  and  there  's  no  reason  why  I 
should  n't  pay  you.  You  can  put  that  away 
in  your  sock,  or  wherever  it  is  that  women 


146 


Ht  tbe  Stan  ot  tbe  3acfc*o'-Xantern 


Hnotber 


keep  money,  or  else  I  take  the  next  train.  If 
you  don't  want  to  lose  me,  you  have  to  accept 
four  plunks  every  Monday.  I  've  got  lots  of 
four  plunks,"  he  added,  with  a  winning 
smile. 

"Very  well,"  said  Dorothy,  quite  certain 
that  she  could  not  spare  Dick.  "  If  it  will 
make  you  feel  any  better  about  staying,  I  '11 
take  it." 

He  had  quickly  made  friends  with  Elaine, 
and  the  three  made  a  more  harmonious  group 
than  might  have  been  expected  under  the  cir 
cumstances.  With  returning  strength  and 
health,  Miss  St.  Clair  began  to  take  more  of 
an  interest  in  her  surroundings.  She  gathered 
the  white  clover  blossoms  in  which  Dorothy 
tied  up  her  pats  of  sweet  butter,  picked  ber 
ries  in  the  garden,  skimmed  the  milk,  helped 
churn,  and  fed  the  chickens. 

Dick  took  entire  charge  of  the  cow,  thus 
relieving  Mrs.  Smithers  of  an  uncongenial 
task  and  winning  her  heartfelt  gratitude.  She 
repaid  him  with  unnumbered  biscuits  of  his 
favourite  kind  and  with  many  a  savoury 
"snack"  between  meals.  He  also  helped 
Dorothy  in  many  other  ways.  It  was  Dick 
who  collected  the  eggs  every  morning  and 


Snotber 


147 


took  them  to  the  sanitarium,  along  with  such 
other  produce  as  might  be  ready  for  the  mar 
ket.  He  secured  astonishing  prices  for  the 
things  he  sold,  and  set  it  down  to  man's  su 
perior  business  ability  when  questioned  by 
his  hostess.  Dorothy  never  guessed  that 
most  of  the  money  came  out  of  his  own 
pocket,  and  was  charged  up,  in  the  ragged 
memorandum  book  which  he  carried,  to 
"  Elaine's  board." 

Miss  St.  Clair  had  never  thought  of  offering 
compensation,  and  no  one  suggested  it  to  her, 
but  Dick  privately  determined  to  make  good 
the  deficiency,  sure  that  a  woman  married  to 
"a  writing  chump"  would  soon  be  in  need 
of  ready  money  if  not  actually  starving  at  the 
time.  That  people  should  pay  for  what  Har- 
lan  wrote  seemed  well-nigh  incredible.  Be 
sides,  though  Dick  had  never  read  that  "  love 
is  an  insane  desire  on  the  part  of  a  man  to  pay 
a  woman's  board  bill  for  life,"  he  took  a  defin 
ite  satisfaction  out  of  this  secret  expenditure, 
which  he  did  not  stop  to  analyse. 

He  brought  back  full  price  for  everything  he 
took  to  the  "repair-shop,"  as  he  had  irrever 
ently  christened  the  sanitarium,  though  he 
seldom  sold  much.  On  the  other  side  of  the 


"Elaine's 
JBoarli " 


148 


at  tbe  Stan  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Rnotber 


hill  he  had  a  small  but  select  graveyard  where 
he  buried  such  unsalable  articles  as  he  could 
not  eat.  His  appetite  was  capricious,  and 
Dorothy  had  frequently  observed  that  when 
he  came  back  from  the  long  walk  to  the  sani 
tarium,  he  ate  nothing  at  all. 

He  established  a  furniture  factory  under  a 
spreading  apple  tree  at  a  respectable  distance 
from  the  house,  and  began  to  remodel  the 
black-walnut  relics  which  were  evidence  of 
his  kinsman's  poor  taste.  He  took  many  a 
bed  apart,  scraped  off  the  disfiguring  varnish, 
sandpapered  and  oiled  the  wood,  and  put  it 
together  in  new  and  beautiful  forms.  He 
made  several  tables,  a  cabinet,  a  bench,  half 
a  dozen  chairs,  a  set  of  hanging  shelves,  and 
even  aspired  to  a  desk,  which,  owing  to  the 
limitations  of  the  material,  was  not  wholly 
successful. 

Dorothy  and  Elaine  sat  in  rocking-chairs  un 
der  the  tree  and  encouraged  him  while  he 
worked.  One  of  them  embroidered  a  simple 
design  upon  a  burlap  curtain  while  the  other 
read  aloud,  and  together  they  planned  a 
shapely  remodelling  of  the  Jack-o'-Lantern. 
Fortunately,  the  wood-work  was  plain,  and 
the  ceilings  not  too  high. 


Hnotber 

"  I  think,"  said  Elaine,  "  that  the  big  living 
room  with  the  casement  windows  will  be 
perfectly  beautiful.  You  could  n't  have  any 
thing  lovelier  than  this  dull  walnut  with  the 
yellow  walls." 

Whatever  Mrs.  Carr's  thoughts  might  be, 
this  simple  sentence  was  usually  sufficient  to 
turn  the  current  into  more  pleasant  channels. 
She  had  planned  to  have  needless  partitions 
taken  out,  and  make  the  whole  lower  floor 
into  one  room,  with  only  a  dining-room,  kit 
chen,  and  pantry  back  of  it.  She  would 
take  up  the  unsightly  carpets,  over  which  im 
possible  plants  wandered  persistently,  and 
have  them  woven  into  rag  rugs,  with  green 
and  brown  and  yellow  borders.  The  floor 
was  to  be  stained  brown  and  the  pine  wood 
work  a  soft,  old  green.  Yellow  walls  and 
white  net  curtains,  with  the  beautiful  furniture 
Dick  was  making,  completed  a  very  charm 
ing  picture  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  loved 
her  home. 

Outspeeding  it  in  her  fancy  was  the  finer, 
truer  living  which  she  believed  lay  be 
yond.  Some  day  she  and  Harlan,  alone  once 
more,  with  the  cobwebs  of  estrangement 
swept  away,  should  begin  a  new  and  happier 


149 


pleasant 

Channels, 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 

Bnotber  honeymoon  in  the  transformed  house.  When 
the  book  was  done  —  ah,  when  the  book 
was  done!  But  he  was  not  reading  any  part 
of  it  to  her  now  and  would  not  let  her  begin 
copying  it  on  the  typewriter. 

"I  '11  do  it  myself,  when  I  'm  ready,"  he 
said,  coldly.  "  I  can  use  a  typewriter  just  as 
well  as  you  can." 

Dorothy  sighed,  unconsciously,  for  the 
woman's  part  is  always  to  wait  patiently 
while  men  achieve,  and  she  who  has  learned 
to  wait  patiently,  and  be  happy  meanwhile, 
has  learned  the  finest  art  of  all  —  the  art  of 
life. 

"Now,"  said  Dick,  "that's  a  peach  of  a 
table,  if  I  do  say  it  as  should  n't." 

They  readily  agreed  with  him,  for  it  was 
low  and  massive,  built  on  simple,  dignified 
lines,  and  beautifully  finished.  The  head 
boards  of  three  ponderous  walnut  beds  and 
the  supporting  columns  of  a  hideous  side 
board  had  gone  into  its  composition,  thus 
illustrating,  as  Dorothy  said,  that  ugliness  may 
be  changed  to  beauty  by  one  who  knows 
how  and  is  willing  to  work  for  it. 

The  noon  train  whistled  shrilly  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  Dorothy  started  out  of  her  chair. 


Hnotber 


"  She  's  afraid,"  laughed  Dick,  instantly  com 
prehending.  "She  's  afraid  somebody  is 
coming  on  it." 

"More  twins?"  queried  Elaine,  from  the 
depths  of  her  rocker.  "Surely  there  can't  be 
any  more  twins  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Dorothy,  vague 
ly  troubled.  "Someway,  I  feel  as  though 
something  terrible  were  going  to  happen." 

Nothing  happened,  however,  until  after 
luncheon,  just  as  she  had  begun  to  breathe 
peacefully  again.  Willie  saw  the  procession 
first  and  ran  back  with  gleeful  shouts  to 
make  the  announcement.  So  it  was  that 
the  entire  household,  including  Harlan,  formed 
a  reception  committee  on  the  front  porch. 

Up  the  hill,  drawn  by  two  straining  horses, 
came  what  appeared  at  first  to  be  a  pyramid 
of  furniture,  but  later  resolved  itself  into  the 
component  parts  of  a  more  ponderous  bed 
than  the  ingenuity  of  man  had  yet  contrived. 
It  was  made  of  black  walnut,  and  was  at  least 
three  times  as  heavy  as  any  of  those  in  the 
Jack-o'-Lantern.  On  the  top  of  the  mass  was 
perched  a  little  old  man  in  a  skull  cap,  a  slip 
pered  foot  in  a  scarlet  sock  airily  waving  at 
one  side.  A  bright  green  coil  closely  clutched 


Something 
Uerrible 


'5*          at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 

»notber  in  his  withered  hands  was  the  bed  cord 
appertaining  to  the  bed  —  a  sainted  posses 
sion  from  which  its  owner  sternly  refused  to 
part. 

"By  Jove!"  shouted  Dick;  "it  's  Uncle 
Israel  and  his  crib!  " 

Paying  no  heed  to  the  assembled  group, 
Uncle  Israel  dismounted  nimbly  enough,  and 
directed  the  men  to  take  his  bed  upstairs, 
which  they  did,  while  Harlan  and  Dorothy 
stood  by  helplessly.  Here,  under  his  profane 
and  involved  direction,  the  structure  was 
finally  set  in  place,  even  to  the  patchwork 
quilt,  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  which 
surmounted  it  all. 

Financial  settlement  was  waved  aside  by 
Uncle  Israel  as  a  matter  in  which  he  was  not 
interested,  and  it  was  Dick  who  counted  out 
two  dimes  and  a  nickel  to  secure  peace.  A 
supplementary  procession  appeared  with  a 
small,  weather-beaten  trunk,  a  folding  bath- 
cabinet,  and  a  huge  case  which,  from  Uncle 
Israel's  perturbation,  evidently  contained  nu 
merous  fragile  articles  of  great  value. 

"  Tell  Ebeneezer,"  wheezed  the  newcomer, 
"that  I  have  arrived." 

"Ebeneezer,"  replied  Dick,  in  wicked  imi- 


Snotber  153 

tation  of  the  old  man's  asthmatic  speech,  "  has        t>ie 

(Brief 
been  dead  for  some  time. 

"Then,"  creaked  Uncle  Israel,  waving  a 
tremulous,  bony  hand  suggestively  toward 
the  door,  "kindly  leave  me  alone  with  my 
grief." 


154 


Still 
/Core 


Still  HDore 

UNCLE  ISRAEL,  whose  other  name  was 
Skiles,  adjusted  himself  to  his  grief  in 
short  order.  The  sounds  which  issued  from 
his  room  were  not  those  commonly  associ 
ated  with  mourning.  Dick,  fully  accustomed 
to  the  various  noises,  explained  them  for  the 
edification  of  the  Carrs,  who  at  present  were 
sorely  in  need  of  edification. 

"That  's  the  bath  cabinet,"  remarked  Mr. 
Chester,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  "  He  's 
setting  it  up  near  enough  to  the  door  so  that 
if  anybody  should  come  in  unexpectedly  while 
it 's  working,  the  whole  thing  will  be  tipped 
over  and  the  house  set  on  fire.  Uncle  Israel 
won't  have  any  lock  or  bolt  on  his  door  for 
fear  he  should  die  in  the  night.  He  relies 
wholly  on  the  bath  cabinet  and  moral  suasion. 
Nobody  knocks  on  doors  here,  anyway — just 
goes  in. 


Still  flDore 


155 


"That  's  his  trunk.  He  keeps  it  under  the  tt« 
window.  The  bed  is  set  up  first,  then  the 
bath  cabinet,  then  the  trunk,  and  last,  but  not 
least,  the  medicine  chest.  He  keeps  his  en 
tire  pharmacopoeia  on  a  table  at  the  head  of  his 
bed,  with  a  candle  and  matches,  so  that  if  he 
feels  badly  in  the  night,  the  proper  remedy  is 
instantly  at  hand.  He  prepares  some  of  his 
medicines  himself,  but  he  is  n't  bigoted  about 
it.  He  buys  the  rest  at  wholesale,  and  I  '11 
eat  my  hat  if  he  has  n't  got  a  full-sized  bottle 
of  every  patent  medicine  that  's  on  sale  any 
where  in  the  United  States." 

"  How  old,"  asked  Harlan,  speaking  for  the 
first  time,  "is  Uncle  Israel?" 

"Something  over  ninety,  I  believe,"  re 
turned  Dick.  "I  've  lost  my  book  of  vital 
statistics,  so  I  don't  know,  exactly." 

"How  long,"  inquired  Dorothy,  with  a 
forced  smile,  "does  Uncle  Israel  stay?" 

"  Lord  bless  you,  my  dear  lady,  Uncle  Is 
rael  stays  all  Summer.  Hello — there  are  some 
more! " 

A  private  conveyance  of  uncertain  age  and 
purposes  drew  up  before  the  door.  From  it 
dismounted  a  very  slender  young  man  of  me 
dium  height,  whose  long  auburn  hair  hung 


156         at  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 

stm  over  his  coat-collar  and  at  times  partially  ob 
scured  his  soulful  grey  eyes.  It  resembled  the 
mane  of  a  lion,  except  in  colour.  He  carried 
a  small  black  valise,  and  a  roll  of  manuscript 
tied  with  a  badly  soiled  ribbon. 

An  old  lady  followed,  stepping  cautiously, 
but  still  finding  opportunity  to  scrutinise  the 
group  in  the  doorway,  peering  sharply  over 
her  gold-bowed  spectacles.  It  was  she  who 
paid  the  driver,  and  even  before  the  two 
reached  the  house,  it  was  evident  that  they 
were  not  on  speaking  terms. 

The  young  man  offered  Mr.  Chester  a  thin, 
tremulous  hand  which  lay  on  Dick's  broad 
palm  in  a  nerveless,  clammy  fashion.  "  Pray," 
he  said,  in  a  high,  squeaky  voice,  "  convey  my 
greetings  to  dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer,  and  inform 
him  that  I  have  arrived." 

"I  am  at  present  holding  no  communica 
tion  with  Uncle  Ebeneezer,"  explained  Dick. 
"  The  wires  are  down." 

"  Where  is  Ebeneezer  ?  "  demanded  the  old 
lady. 

"Dead," answered  Dorothy,  wearily ; "dead, 
dead.  He  's  been  dead  a  long  time.  This  is 
our  house — he  left  it  to  my  husband  and  me." 

"Don't  let  that  disturb  you  a  mite,"  said 


Still  jflDore 


the  old  lady,  cheerfully.  "  I  like  your  looks  a 
whole  lot,  an'  I  'd  just  as  soon  stay  with  you 
as  with  Ebeneezer.  I  dunno  but  I  'd  ruther." 

She  must  have  been  well  past  sixty,  but  her 
scanty  hair  was  as  yet  untouched  with  grey. 
She  wore  it  parted  in  the  middle,  after  an  an 
cient  fashion,  and  twisted  at  the  back  into  a 
tight  little  knob,  from  which  the  ends  of  a 
wire  hairpin  protruded  threateningly.  Doro 
thy  reflected,  unhappily,  that  the  whole  thing 
was  done  up  almost  tight  enough  to  play  a 
tune  on. 

For  the  rest,  her  attire  was  neat,  though 
careless.  One  had  always  the  delusion  that 
part  or  all  of  it  was  on  the  point  of  coming 
off. 

The  young  man  was  wiping  his  weak  eyes 
upon  a  voluminous  silk  handkerchief  which  had 
evidently  seen  long  service  since  its  last  wash 
ing.  "Dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer,"  he  breathed, 
running  his  long,  bony  fingers  through  his  hair. 
"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  heavily  this  blow  falls 
upon  me.  Dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer  was  a  dis 
tinguished  patron  of  the  arts.  Our  country 
needs  more  men  like  him,  men  with  fine  ap 
preciation,  vowed  to  the  service  of  the  Ideal. 
If  you  will  pardon  me,  I  will  now  retire  to  my 


B  TObole 

Xot 


158 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


SHU 


apartment  and  remain  there  a  short  time  in 
seclusion. 

So  saying,  he  ran  lightly  upstairs,  as  one 
who  was  thoroughly  at  home. 

"Who  in  —  "  began  Harlan. 

"Mr.  Harold  Vernon  Perkins,  poet,"  said 
Dick.  "  He  's  got  his  rhyming  dictionary  and 
all  his  odes  with  him." 

"Without  knowing,"  said  Dorothy,  "I 
should  have  thought  his  name  was  Harold 
or  Arthur  or  Paul.  He  looks  it." 

"It  wa'  n't  my  fault,"  interjected  the  old 
lady,  "that  he  come.  I  did  n't  even  sense 
that  he  was  on  the  same  train  as  me  till  I  hired 
the  carriage  at  the  Junction  an'  he  clim'  in.  He 
said  he  might  as  well  come  along  as  we  was 
both  goin'  to  the  same  place,  an'  it  would  save 
him  walkin',  an'  not  cost  me  no  more  than  't 
would  anyway." 

While  she  was  speaking,  she  had  taken  off 
her  outer  layer  of  drapery  and  her  bonnet. 
"I  '11  just  put  these  things  in  my  room,  my 
dear,"  she  said  to  Dorothy,  "an"  then  I  '11 
come  back  an'  talk  to  you.  I  like  your  looks 
first-rate." 

"Who  in  —  /'said  Harlan,  again,  as  the  old 
lady  vanished  into  one  of  the  lower  wings. 


Still  /iDore 


159 


"Mrs.  Belinda  something,"  answered  Dick.        pcnte 
"I  don't  know  who  she  's  married  to  now. 
She  's  had  bad  luck  with  her  husbands." 

Mrs.  Carr,  deeply  troubled,  was  leaning 
against  the  wall  in  the  hall,  and  Dick  patted 
her  hand  soothingly.  "Don't  you  fret,"  he 
said,  cheerily ;  "I'm  here  to  see  you  through." 

"That  being  the  case,"  remarked  Harlan, 
with  a  certain  acidity  in  his  tone,  "I  '11  go 
back  to  my  work." 

The  old  lady  appeared  again  as  Harlan 
slammed  the  library  door,  and  suggested  that 
Dick  should  go  away. 

"Polite  hint,"  commented  Mr.  Chester,  not 
at  all  disturbed.  "See  you  later."  He  went 
out,  whistling,  with  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his 
head  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"I  reckon  you  're  a  new  relative,  be  n't 
you  ?  "  asked  the  lady  guest,  eyeing  Dorothy 
closely.  "I  disremember  seein'  you  before." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Carr,"  repeated  Dorothy,  me 
chanically.  "My  husband,  Harlan  Carr,  is 
Uncle  Ebeneezer's  nephew,  and  the  house 
was  left  to  him." 

"Do  tell!"  ejaculated  the  other.  "I 
would  n't  have  thought  it  of  Ebeneezer.  I  'm 
Belinda  Dodd,  relict  of  Benjamin  Dodd,  de- 


i6o 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


Still 

/Bore 


ceased.  How  many  are  there  here,  my 
dear?" 

"Miss  St.  Clair,  Mr.  Chester,  Mrs.  Holmes 
and  her  three  children,  Uncle  Israel  Skiles,  and 
you  two,  besides  Mr.  Carr,  Mrs.  Smithers, 
and  myself." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  visitor,  in  evident 
surprise. 

"All!"  repeated  Dorothy.  "Is  n't  that 
enough  ?" 

"Lord  love  you,  my  dear,  it  's  plain  to  be 
seen  that  you  ain't  never  been  here  before. 
Only  them  few  an'  so  late  in  the  season,  too. 
Why,  there  's  Cousin  Si  Martin,  an'  his  wife, 
an'  their  eight  children,  some  of  the  children 
bein'  married  an'  havin'  other  children,  an' 
Sister-in-law  Fanny  Wood  with  her  invalid 
husband,  her  second  husband,  that  is,  an'  Re 
becca's  Uncle  James's  third  wife  with  her  two 
daughters,  an'  Rebecca's  sister's  second  hus 
band  with  his  new  wife  an'  their  little  boy, 
an'  Uncle  Jason  an'  his  stepson,  the  one  that 
has  fits,  an'  Cousin  Sally  Simmons  an'  her 
daughter,  an'  the  four  little  Riley  children  an' 
their  Aunt  Lucretia,  an'  Step-cousin  Betsey 
Skiles  with  her  two  nieces,  though  I  misdoubt 
their  comin'  this  year.  The  youngest  niece 


Still  flDore 

had  typhoid  fever  here  last  Summer  for  eight  simple 
weeks,  an'  Betsey  thinks  the  location  ain't 
healthy,  in  spite  of  it 's  bein'  so  near  the  sani 
tarium.  She  was  threatenin'  to  get  the  health 
department  or  somethin'  after  Ebeneezer  an' 
have  the  drinkin'  water  looked  into,  so  's  they 
did  n't  part  on  the  pleasantest  terms,  but  in 
the  main  we  've  all  got  along  well  together. 

"If  Betsey  knowed  Ebeneezer  was  dead, 
she  would  n't  hesitate  none  about  comin', 
typhoid  or  no  typhoid.  Mebbe  it  was  her 
fault  some,  for  Ebeneezer  wa'  n't  to  blame  for 
his  drinkin'  water  no  more  'n  I  'd  be.  Our 
minister  used  to  say  that  there  was  no  disci 
pline  for  the  soul  like  livin'  with  folks,  year  in 
an'  year  out  hand-runnin',  an'  Betsey  is  natur 
ally  that  kind.  Ebeneezer  always  lived  plain, 
but  we  're  all  simple  folks,  not  carin'  much  for 
style,  so  we  never  minded  it.  The  air  's  good 
up  here  an'  I  dunno  any  better  place  to  spend 
the  Summer.  My  gracious!  You  be  n't  sick, 
be  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  murmured 
Dorothy,  her  white  lips  scarcely  moving;  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

"Well,  now,"  responded  Mrs.  Dodd,  "I 
can  see  that  I  've  upset  you  some.  Perhaps 


162 


Ht  tbe  Stan  ot  tbe  3acfe=o'*Xantern 


stui  you  're  one  of  them  people  that  don't  like  to 
have  other  folks  around  you.  I  've  heard  of 
such,  comin'  from  the  city.  Why,  I  knew  a 
woman  that  lived  in  the  city,  an'  she  said  she 
did  n't  know  the  name  of  the  woman  next 
door  to  her  after  livin'  there  over  eight 
months,— an'  their  windows  lookin'  right  into 
each  other,  too." 

"I  hate  people  !"  cried  Dorothy,  in  a  pas 
sion  of  anger.  "I  don't  want  anybody  here 
but  my  husband  and  Mrs.  Smithers!  " 

"Set  quiet,  my  dear,  an'  make  your  mind 
easy.  I  'm  sure  Ebeneezer  never  intended  his 
death  to  make  any  difference  in  my  spendin' 
the  Summer  here,  especially  when  I  'm  fresh 
from  another  bereavement,  but  if  you  're  in 
earnest  about  closin'  your  doors  on  your  poor 
dead  aunt's  relations,  why  I  '11  see  what  I 
can  do." 

"Oh,  if  you  could!"  Dorothy  almost 
screamed  the  words.  "If  you  can  keep  any 
more  people  from  coming  here,  I  '11  bless  you 
for  ever." 

"  Poor  child,  I  can  see  that  you  're  consider 
able  upset.  Just  get  me  the  pen  an'  ink  an' 
some  paper  an'  envelopes  an'  I  '11  set  down 
right  now  an'  write  to  the  connection  an'  tell 


Sttll  /IDore 


163 


'em  that  Ebeneezer  's  dead  an'  bein'  of  un 
sound  mind  at  the  last  has  willed  the  house 
to  strangers  who  refuse  to  open  their  doors 
to  the  blood  relations  of  poor  dead  Rebecca. 
That 's  all  I  can  do  an'  I  can't  promise  that 
it  '11  work.  Ebeneezer  writ  several  times  to 
us  all  that  he  did  n't  feel  like  havin'  no  more 
company,  but  Rebecca's  relatives  was  all  of 
a  forgivin'  disposition  an'  never  laid  it  up 
against  him.  We  all  kep'  on  a-comin'  just 
the  same." 

"Tell  them,"  cried  Dorothy,  her  eyes  un 
usually  bright  and  her  cheeks  burning,  "that 
we  've  got  smallpox  here,  or  diphtheria,  or  a 
lunatic  asylum,  or  anything  you  like.  Tell 
them  there  's  a  big  dog  in  the  yard  that  won't 
let  anybody  open  the  gate.  Tell  them  any 
thing!" 

"Just  you  leave  it  all  to  me,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Dodd,  soothingly.  "On  account  of  the 
connection  bein'  so  differently  constituted, 
1  '11  have  to  tell  'em  all  different.  Disease 
would  keep  away  some  an'  fetch  others. 
Betsey  Skiles,  now,  she  feels  to  turn  her 
hand  to  nursin'  an'  I  've  knowed  her  to  go 
miles  in  the  dead  of  Winter  to  set  up  with  a 
stranger  that  had  some  disease  she  wa'  n't 


164 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


sttii        familiar  with.     Dogs  would  bring  others  an' 

flDore  _ 

only  scare  a  few.  Just  you  leave  it  all  to  me. 
There  ain't  never  no  use  in  borrerin'  trouble 
an'  givin'  up  your  peace  of  mind  as  security, 
'cause  you  don't  never  get  the  security  back. 
I  've  been  married  enough  to  know  that 
there  's  plenty  of  trouble  in  life  besides  what 's 
looked  for,  an'  it  '11  get  in,  without  your 
holdin'  open  the  door  an'  spreadin'  a  mat 
out  with  'Welcome'  on  it.  Did  Ebeneezer 
leave  any  property  ?  " 

"Only  the  house  and  furniture,"  answered 
Dorothy,  feeling  that  the  whole  burden  of  the 
world  had  been  suddenly  shifted  to  her  young 
shoulders. 

"Rebecca  had  a  big  diamond  pin,"  said 
Mrs.  Dodd,  after  a  brief  silence,  "that  she 
allers  said  was  to  be  mine  when  she  got 
through  with  it.  Ebeneezer  give  it  to  her  for 
a  weddin'  present.  You  ain't  seen  it  layin' 
around,  have  you?" 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  it  'laying  around," 
retorted  Dorothy,  conscious  that  she  was 
juggling  with  the  truth. 

"Well,"  continued  Mrs.  Dodd,  easily,  nib 
bling  her  pen  holder,  "  when  it  comes  to 
light,  just  remember  that  it 's  mine.  I  don't 


Still  flDore 


165 


doubt  it'll  turn  up  sometime.  An'  now,  my 
dear,  I  '11  just  begin  on  them  letters.  Cousin 
Si  Martin's  folks  are  a-packin'  an'  expectin'  to 
get  here  next  week.  I  suppose  you  're  willin' 
to  furnish  the  stamps  ?  " 

"Willing!"  cried  Dorothy,  "I  should  say 
yes!  " 

Mrs.  Dodd  toiled  long  at  her  self-imposed 
task,  and,  having  finished  it,  went  out  into 
the  kitchen,  where  for  an  hour  or  more  she 
exchanged  mortuary  gossip  with  Mrs.  Smith- 
ers,  every  detail  of  the  conversation  being 
keenly  relished  by  both  ladies. 

At  dinner-time,  eleven  people  sat  down  to 
partake  of  the  excellent  repast  furnished  by 
Mrs.  Smithers  under  the  stimulus  of  pleasant 
talk.  Harlan  was  at  the  head,  with  Miss  St. 
Glair  on  his  right  and  Mrs.  Dodd  on  his  left. 
Next  to  Miss  St.  Glair  was  the  poet,  whose 
deep  sorrow  did  not  interfere  with  his  appe 
tite.  The  twins  were  next  to  him,  then  Mrs. 
Holmes,  then  Willie,  then  Dorothy,  at  the 
foot  of  the  table.  On  her  right  was  Dick,  the 
space  between  Dick  and  Mrs.  Dodd  being 
occupied  by  Uncle  Israel. 

To  a  careless  observer,  it  might  have  seemed 
that  Uncle  Israel  had  more  than  his  share  of 


i66 


the  table,  but  such  in  reality  was  not  the  case. 
dDore 

His  plate  was  flanked  by  a  goodly  array  of 

medicine  bottles,  and  cups  and  bowls  of  pre- 
digested  and  patent  food.  Uncle  Israel,  as 
Dick  concisely  expressed  it,  was  "pie  for  the 
cranks." 

"My  third  husband,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dodd, 
pleasantly,  well  aware  that  she  was  touching 
her  neighbour's  sorest  spot,  "was  terribly 
afflicted  with  stomach  trouble." 

"The  only  stomach  trouble  I  've  ever  had," 
commented  Mr.  Chester,  airily  spearing  an 
other  biscuit  with  his  fork,  "was  in  getting 
enough  to  put  into  it." 

"  Have  a  care,  young  man,"  wheezed  Uncle 
Israel,  warningly.  "There  ain't  nothin'  so 
bad  for  the  system  as  hot  bread." 

"  It  would  be  bad  for  my  system,"  resumed 
Dick,  "  not  to  be  able  to  get  it." 

"My  third  husband,"  continued  Mrs.  Dodd, 
disregarding  the  interruption,  "would  n't 
have  no  bread  in  the  house  at  all.  He  et 
these  little  straw  mattresses,  same  as  you  've 
got,  so  constant  that  he  finally  died  from  the 
tic  doleroo.  Will  you  please  pass  me  them 
biscuits,  Mis'  Carr?" 

Mrs.  Dodd  was  obliged  to  rise  and  reach 


Still  /IDore  167 


past  Uncle  Israel,  who  declined  to  be  con- 
taminated  by  passing  the  plate,  before  she 
attained  her  desired  biscuit. 

"  Next  time,  Aunt  Belinda,"  said  Dick,  "  I'll 
throw  you  one.  Suffering  Moses,  what  new 
dope  is  that  ?" 

A  powerful  and  peculiarly  penetrating  odour 
filled  the  room.  Presently  it  became  evident 
that  Uncle  Israel  had  uncorked  a  fresh  bottle 
of  medicine.  Miss  St.  Glair  coughed  and 
hastily  excused  herself. 

"  It 's  time  for  me  to  take  my  pain-killer," 
murmured  Uncle  Israel,  pouring  out  a  table- 
spoonful  of  a  thick,  brown  mixture.  "This 
here  cured  a  Congressman  in  less  'n  half  a 
bottle  of  a  gnawin'  pain  in  his  vitals.  I  ain't 
never  took  none  of  it  yet,  but  I  aim  to  now." 

The  vapour  of  it  had  already  made  the 
twins  cry  and  brought  tears  to  Mrs.  Dodd's 
eyes,  but  Uncle  Israel  took  it  clear  and 
smacked  his  lips  over  it  enjoyably.  "It 
seems  to  be  a  searchin'  medicine,"  he  com 
mented,  after  an.  interval  of  silence.  "I  don't 
misdoubt  that  it  '11  locate  that  pain  that  was 
movin'  up  and  down  my  back  all  night  last 
night." 

Uncle  Israel's   wizened  old  face,   with   its 


1 68         at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acft*o'*Xantern 

stm  fringe  of  white  whisker,  beamed  with  the  joy 
of  a  scientist  who  has  made  a  new  and  im 
portant  discovery.  He  had  a  long,  hooked 
nose,  and  was  painfully  near-sighted,  but 
refused  to  wear  glasses.  Just  now  he  sniffed 
inquiringly  at  the  open  bottle  of  medicine. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  nodding  his  bald  head  sagely, 
"I  don't  misdoubt  this  here  can  locate  it." 

"I  don't,  either,"  said  Harlan,  grimly,  put 
ting  his  handkerchief  to  his  nose.  "Will  you 
excuse  me,  Dorothy  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

Mrs.  Holmes  took  the  weeping  twins  away 
from  the  table,  and  Willie,  his  mentor  gone, 
began  to  eat  happily  with  his  fingers.  The 
poet  rose  and  drew  a  roll  of  manuscript  from 
his  coat  pocket. 

"This  afternoon,"  he  said,  clearing  his 
throat,  "  I  employed  my  spare  moments  in 
composing  an  ode  to  the  memory  of  our 
sainted  relative,  under  whose  hospitable  roof 
we  are  all  now  so  pleasantly  gathered.  I  will 
read  it  to  you." 

Mrs.  Dodd  hastily  left  the  table,  muttering 
indistinctly,  and  Dick  followed  her.  Willie 
slipped  from  his  chair,  crawled  under  the 
table,  and  by  stealthily  sticking  a  pin  into 


Still  /Bore 

Uncle  Israel's  ankle,  produced  a  violent  dis 
turbance,  during  which  the  pain-killer  was 
badly  spilled.  When  the  air  finally  cleared, 
there  was  no  one  in  the  room  but  the  poet, 
who  sadly  rolled  up  his  manuscript. 

"I  will  read  it  at  breakfast,"  he  thought. 
"I  will  give  them  all  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
it.  Art  is  for  the  many,  not  for  the  few.  I 
must  use  it  to  elevate  humanity  to  the  Ideal." 

He  went  back  to  his  own  room  to  add 
some  final  reverent  touches  to  the  master 
piece,  and  to  meditate  upon  the  delicate 
blonde  beauty  of  Miss  St.  Clair. 

From  Mrs.  Dodd,  meanwhile,  Dick  had 
gathered  the  pleasing  purport  of  her  volumin 
ous  correspondence,  and  insisted  on  posting 
all  the  letters  that  very  night,  though  morning 
would  have  done  just  as  well.  When  he  had 
gone  downhill  on  his  errand  of  mercy,  whis 
tling  cheerily  as  was  his  wont,  Mrs.  Dodd 
went  into  her  own  room  and  locked  the  door, 
immediately  beginning  a  careful  search  of  the 
entire  apartment. 

She  scrutinised  the  walls  closely,  and  rapped 
softly  here  and  there,  listening  intently  for  a 
hollow  sound.  Standing  on  a  chair,  she  felt 
all  along  the  mouldings  and  window-casings, 


169 


H  Violent 

S>isturb= 
ance 


170 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe 


sttu  taking  unto  herself  much  dust  in  the  process. 
She  spent  half  an  hour  in  the  stuffy  closet,  in 
vestigating  the  shelves  and  recesses,  then  she 
got  down  on  her  rheumatic  old  knees  and 
crept  laboriously  over  the  carpet,  systematic 
ally  taking  it  breadth  by  breadth,  and  paying 
special  attention  to  that  section  of  it  which 
was  under  the  bed. 

"  When  you  've  found  where  anythin'  ain't," 
she  said  to  herself,  "you've  gone  a  long  way 
toward  findin'  where  't  is.  It  's  just  like 
Ebeneezer  to  have  hid  it." 

She  took  down  the  pictures,  which  were 
mainly  family  portraits,  life-size,  presented  to 
the  master  of  the  house  by  devoted  relatives, 
and  rapidly  unframed  them.  In  one  of  them 
she  found  a  sealed  envelope,  which  she  eagerly 
tore  open.  Inside  was  a  personal  communi 
cation  which,  though  brief,  was  very  much 
to  the  point. 

"Dear  Cousin  Belinda,"  it  read,  "I  hope 
you  're  taking  pleasure  in  your  hunt.  I  have 
kept  my  word  to  you  and  in  this  very  room, 
somewhere,  is  a  sum  of  money  which  repre 
sents  my  estimate  of  your  worth,  as  nearly  as 
sordid  coin  can  hope  to  do.  It  is  all  in  cash, 


Still  flDore  171 


for  greater  convenience  in  handling.     I  trust 

/Ban 

you  will  not  spend  it  all  in  one  store,  and 
that  you  will,  out  of  your  abundance,  be  gen 
erous  to  the  poor.  It  might  be  well  to  use  a 
part  of  it  in  making  a  visit  to  New  York. 
When  you  find  this,  I  shall  be  out  in  the 
cemetery  all  by  myself,  and  very  comfortable. 
"Yours,  EBENEEZER  JUDSON." 

"  I  knowed  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  excitedly. 
"Ebeneezer  was  a  hard  man,  but  he  always 
kep'  his  word.  Dear  me!  What  makes  me 
so  trembly! " 

She  removed  all  the  bedclothes  and  pounded 
the  pillows  and  mattress  in  vain,  then  turned 
her  attention  to  the  furniture.  It  was  almost 
one  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Dodd  finally  retired, 
worn  in  body  and  jaded  in  spirit,  but  still  far 
from  discouraged . 

"  Ebeneezer  must  have  mistook  the  room," 
she  said  to  herself,  "but  how  could  he  unless 
his  mind  was  failin'  ?  I  've  had  this  now, 
goin'  on  ten  year." 

In  the  night  she  dreamed  of  finding  money 
in  the  bureau,  and  got  up  to  see  if  by  chance 
she  had  not  received  mysterious  guidance 
from  an  unknown  source.  There  was  money 


1 72          at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 

stfn       in  the  bureau,  sure  enough,  but  it  was  only 

Acre 

two  worn  copper  cents  wrapped  in  many 
thicknesses  of  old  newspaper,  and  she  went 
unsuspiciously  back  to  bed. 

"He's  mistook  the  room,"  she  breathed, 
drowsily,  as  she  sank  into  troubled  slumber, 
"an'  to-morrer  I'll  have  it  changed.  It's 
just  as  well  I  've  scared  them  others  off,  if  so 
be  I  have." 


XI 


.  Dobfc's  Gbirb  Ibusbanb 

INSIDIOUSLY,  a  single  idea  took  possession 
1  of  the  entire  household.  Mrs.  Smithers 
kept  a  spade  near  at  hand  and  systematically 
dug,  as  opportunity  offered.  Dorothy  became 
accustomed  to  an  odorous  lantern  which  stood 
near  the  back  door  in  the  daytime  and  bobbed 
about  among  the  shrubbery  at  night. 

There  was  definite  method  in  the  madness 
of  Mrs.  Smithers,  however,  for  she  had  once 
seen  the  departed  Mr.  Judson  going  out  to  the 
orchard  with  a  tin  box  under  his  arm  and  her 
own  spade  but  partially  concealed  under  his 
long  overcoat.  When  he  came  back,  he  was 
smiling,  which  was  so  unusual  that  she  forgot 
all  about  the  box,  and  did  not  observe  whether 
or  not  he  had  brought  it  back  with  him. 
Long  afterward,  however,  the  incident  as 
sumed  greater  significance. 

"  If  I  'd  'ave  'ad  the  sense  to  'ave  gone  out 


B  Single 
f&ca 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antem 


fftrs. 

Bo&b'e 

Ubirb 

Jfousbant* 


there  the  next  day,"  she  muttered,  "and  'ave 
seen  where  'e  'ad  dug,  I  might  be  a  rich 
woman  now,  that  's  wot  I  might.  'E  was  a 
clever  one,  'e  was,  and  'e  's  'id  it.  The  old 
skinflint  was  n't  doin'  no  work,  'e  was  n't, 
and  'e  lived  on  'ere  from  year  to  year,  a-payin' 
'is  bills  like  a  Christian  gent,  and  it  stands  to 
reason  there 's  money  'id  somewheres.  Findin' 
is  keepin',  and  it  's  for  me  to  keep  my  'ead 
shut  and  a  sharp  lookout.  Them  Carrs  don't 
suspect  nothink." 

She  was  only  half  right,  however.  Harlan, 
lost  in  his  book,  was  heedless  of  everything 
that  went  on  around  him,  but  Mrs.  Dodd's 
reference  to  the  diamond  pin,  and  her  own 
recollection  of  the  money  she  had  found  in 
the  bureau  drawer,  began  to  work  stealthily 
upon  Dorothy's  mind,  surrounded,  as  she  was, 
by  people  who  were  continually  thinking  of 
the  same  thing. 

Then,  too,  their  funds  were  getting  low. 
There  was  little  to  send  to  the  sanitarium  now, 
for  eleven  people,  as  students  of  domestic 
economics  have  often  observed,  eat  more  than 
one  or  two.  Dick  was  also  affected  by  the 
current  financial  depression,  and  at  length 
conceived  the  idea  that  Uncle  Ebeneezer's 


BofcO's  Zlbirfc 


'75 


worldly  goods  were  somewhere  on  the  prem 
ises. 

Mrs.  Holmes  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in 
the  attic,  while  the  care-free  children,  utterly 
beyond  control,  rioted  madly  through  the 
house.  Dorothy  discovered  Mr.  Perkins,  the 
poet,  half-way  up  the  parlour  chimney,  and 
sat  down  to  see  what  he  would  do  when  he 
came  out  and  found  her  there.  He  had  seemed 
somewhat  embarrassed  when  he  wiped  the 
soot  from  his  face,  but  had  quickly  explained 
that  he  was  writing  a  poem  on  chimney-swal 
lows  and  had  come  to  a  point  where  original 
research  was  essential. 

Even  Elaine,  not  knowing  what  she  sought, 
began  to  investigate,  idly  enough,  the  furni 
ture  and  hangings  in  her  room,  and  Mrs. 
Dodd,  eagerly  seizing  opportunities,  was  for 
ever  keen  on  the  scent.  Uncle  Israel,  owing 
to  the  poor  state  of  his  health,  was  one  of  the 
last  to  be  affected  by  the  surrounding  atmo 
sphere,  but  when  he  caught  the  idea,  he  made 
up  for  lost  time. 

He  was  up  with  the  chickens,  and  invariably 
took  a  long  afternoon  nap,  so  that,  during  the 
night,  there  was  bound  to  be  a  wakeful  in 
terval.  Ordinarily,  he  took  a  sleeping  potion 


tils 
TOlorlMg 


iy6 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Are. 


Ubirt 

tmsbant* 


to  tide  him  over  till  morning,  but  soon  decided 
that  a  little  mild  exercise  with  some  pleasant 
purpose  animating  it,  would  be  far  better  for 
his  nerves. 

Mrs.  Dodd  was  awakened  one  night  by  the 
feeling  that  some  one  was  in  her  room.  A 
vague,  mysterious  Presence  gradually  made 
itself  known.  At  first  she  was  frightened, 
then  the  Presence  wheezed,  and  reassured 
her.  Across  the  path  of  moonlight  that  lay 
on  her  floor,  Uncle  Israel  moved  cautiously. 

He  was  clad  in  a  piebald  dressing-gown 
which  had  been  so  patched  with  various  ma 
terials  that  the  original  fabric  was  uncertain. 
An  old-fashioned  nightcap  was  on  his  head, 
the  tassel  bobbing  freakishly  in  the  back,  and 
he  wore  carpet  slippers. 

Mrs.  Dodd  sat  up  in  bed,  keenly  relishing 
the  situation.  When  he  opened  a  bureau 
drawer,  she  screamed  out:  "What  are  you 
looking  for  ?  " 

Uncle  Israel  started  violently.  "Money," 
he  answered,  in  a  shrill  whisper,  taken  alto 
gether  by  surprise. 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  kindly,  "I'll  get 
right  up  and  help  you!  " 

"Don't,    Belinda,"   pleaded   the   old   man. 


/IDrs.  H>o&fc's  TTbtrfc  tmsbanfc 


177 


"  You  '11  wake  up  everybody.  I  am  a-walkin' 
in  my  sleep,  I  guess.  I  was  a-dreamin'  of 
money  that  I  was  to  find  and  give  to 
you,  and  I  suppose  that  's  why  I  Ve  come 
to  your  room.  You  lay  still,  Belinda,  and 
don't  tell  nobody.  I  am  a-goin'  right 
away." 

Before  she  could  answer  in  a  way  that 
seemed  suitable,  he  was  gone,  and  the  next 
day  he  renewed  his  explanations.  "  I  dunno, 
Belinda,  how  I  ever  come  to  be  a-walkin'  in 
my  sleep.  I  ain't  never  done  such  a  thing 
since  I  was  a  child,  and  then  only  wunst. 
How  dretful  it  would  have  been  if  I  had  gone 
into  any  other  room  and  mebbe  have  been 
shot  or  have  scared  some  young  and  unpro 
tected  female  into  fits.  To  think  of  me,  with 
my  untarnished  reputation,  and  at  my  age, 
a-doin'  such  a  thing!  You  don't  reckon  it 
was  my  new  pain-killer,  do  you?" 

"  I  don't  misdoubt  it  had  sunthin'  to  do 
with  payin',"  returned  Mrs.  Dodd,  greatly 
pleased  with  her  own  poor  joke,  "an',  as  you 
say,  it  might  have  been  dretful.  But  I  am  a 
friend  to  you,  Israel,  an'  I  don't  'low  to  make 
your  misfortune  public,  but,  by  workin'  pri 
vate,  help  you  overcome  it." 


VBaOfng 

in  bis 
Sleep 


i78 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


/Ifcrs. 


Ubirb 
IbuabanS 


"What  air  you  a-layin'  out  to  do?"  de 
manded  Uncle  Israel,  fearfully. 

"I  ain't  rightly  made  up  my  mind  as  yet, 
Israel,"  she  answered,  pleasantly  enough, 
"  but  I  don't  intend  to  have  it  happen  to  you 
again.  Sunthin'  can  surely  be  done  that  '11 
cure  you  of  it." 

"Don't,  Belinda,"  wheezed  her  victim;  "I 
don't  think  I  '11  ever  have  it  again." 

"Don't  you  fret  about  it,  Israel,  'cause  you 
ain't  goin'  to  have  it  no  more.  I  '11  attend  to 
it.  It  's  a  most  distressin'  disease  an'  must 
be  took  early,  but  I  think  I  know  how  to 
fix  it." 

During  her  various  investigations,  she  had 
found  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  beneath  a  pile  of 
rubbish  on  the  floor  of  a  closet  in  an  unoccu 
pied  room.  It  was  altogether  possible,  as  she 
told  herself,  that  one  of  these  keys  should  fit 
the  somnambulist's  door. 

While  Uncle  Israel  was  brewing  a  fresh  sup 
ply  of  medicine  on  the  kitchen  stove,  she 
found,  as  she  had  suspected,  that  one  of  them 
did  fit,  and  thereafter,  every  night,  when 
Uncle  Israel  had  retired,  she  locked  him  in, 
letting  him  out  shortly  after  seven  each  morn 
ing.  When  he  remonstrated  with  her,  she 


.  Bofcfc's  Ubirfc  twsbanfc  179 


replied,  triumphantly,  that  it  was  necessary  — 
otherwise  he  would  never  have  known  that 
the  door  was  locked. 

On  her  first  visit  to  "town"  she  made  it 
her  business  to  call  upon  Lawyer  Bradford  and 
inquire  as  to  Mr.  Judson's  last  will  and  testa 
ment.  She  learned  that  it  did  not  concern 
her  at  all,  and  was  to  be  probated,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  dead  man's  instructions,  at  the 
Fall  term  of  court. 

"Then,  as  yet,"  she  said,  with  a  gleam  of 
satisfaction  in  her  small,  beady  eyes,  "they 
ain't  holdin'  the  house  legal.  Any  of  us  has 
the  same  right  to  stay  as  them  Carrs." 

"That  's  as  you  look  at  it,"  returned  Mr. 
Bradford,  squirming  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

Try  as  she  might,  she  could  extract  no  fur 
ther  information,  but  she  at  least  had  a  bit  of 
knowledge  to  work  on.  She  went  back, 
earnestly  desiring  quiet,  that  she  might  study 
the  problem  without  hindrance,  but,  unfortu 
nately  for  her  purpose,  the  interior  of  the 
Jack-o'-Lantern  resembled  pandemonium  let 
loose. 

Willie  was  sliding  down  the  railing  part 
of  the  time,  and  at  frequent  intervals  coast 
ing  downstairs  on  Mrs.  Smithers's  tea  tray, 


i8o 


/Kre. 


Ubirt 


vocally  expressing  his  pleasure  with  each  trip. 
The  twins,  seated  in  front  of  the  library  door, 
were  pounding  furiously  on  a  milk-pan,  which 
had  not  been  empty  when  they  dragged  it 
into  the  hall,  but  was  now.  Mrs.  Smithers 
was  singing:  "We  have  our  trials  here  be 
low,  Oh,  Glory,  Hallelujah,"  and  a  sickening 
odour  from  a  fresh  concoction  of  Uncle  Israel's 
permeated  the  premises,  Having  irreverently 
detached  the  false  front  from  the  keys  of  the 
melodeon,  Mr.  Perkins  was  playing  a  sad, 
funereal  composition  of  his  own,  with  all  the 
power  of  the  instrument  turned  loose  on  it. 
Upstairs,  Dick  was  whistling,  with  shrill  and 
maddening  persistence,  and  Dorothy,  quite 
helpless,  sat  miserably  on  the  porch  with  her 
fingers  in  her  ears. 

Harlan  burst  out  of  the  library,  just  as  Mrs. 
Dodd  came  up  the  walk,  his  temper  not  im 
proved  by  stumbling  over  the  twins  and  the 
milk-pan,  and  above  their  united  wails  loudly 
censured  Dorothy  for  the  noise  and  confusion. 
"How  in  the  devil  do  you  expect  me  to 
work?"  he  demanded,  irritably.  "If  you 
can't  keep  the  house  quiet,  I  '11  go  back  to 
New  York! " 

Too  crushed  in  spirit  to  reply,  Dorothy  said 


,  Bofcfc's  ftbirfc 


181 


nothing,  and  Harlan  whisked  back  into  the 
library  again,  barely  escaping  Mrs.  Dodd. 

"Poor  child,"  she  said  to  Dorothy;  "you 
look  plum  beat  out." 

"I  am,"  confessed  Mrs.  Carr,  the  quick 
tears  coming  to  her  eyes. 

"  There,  there,  my  dear,  rest  easy.  I  reckon 
this  is  the  first  time  you  've  been  married, 
ain't  it?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Dorothy,  forcing  a  pitiful 
little  smile. 

"I  thought  so.  Now,  when  you  're  as 
used  to  it  as  I  be,  you  won't  take  it  so  hard. 
You  may  think  men  folks  is  all  different,  but 
there  's  a  dretful  sameness  to  'em  after  they  've 
been  through  a  marriage  ceremony.  Mar 
riage  is  just  like  findin'  a  new  penny  on  the 
walk.  When  you  first  see  it,  it  's  all  shiny 
an'  a'most  like  gold,  an'  it  tickles  you  a'most 
to  pieces  to  think  you  're  gettin'  it,  but  after 
you  've  picked  it  up  you  see  that  what  you  Ve 
got  is  half  wild  Indian,  or  mebbe  more  —  I 
ain't  never  been  in  no  mint.  You  may  de 
pend  upon  it,  my  .dear,  there  's  two  sides  to 
all  of  us,  an'  before  marriage,  you  see  the 
wreath  —  afterwards  a  savage. 

"I've  had  seven  of  'em,"  she  continued, 


meet) 

Uo  It 


l82 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


/DCS. 


Ibusbant) 


"  an'  I  know.  My  father  give  me  a  cemetery 
lot  for  a  weddin'  present,  with  a  noble  grey 
marble  monumint  in  it  shaped  like  a  octagon — 
leastways  that 's  what  a  school-teacher  what 
boarded  with  us  said  it  was,  but  I  call  it  a 
eight-sided  piece.  I  'm  speakin'  of  my  first 
marriage  now,  my  dear.  My  father  never 
give  me  no  weddin'  present  but  the  once.  An' 
I  can't  never  marry  again,  'cause  there  's  a 
husband  lyin'  now  on  seven  sides  of  the  mon 
umint  an'  only  one  place  left  for  me.  I  was 
told  once  that  I  could  have  further  husbands 
cremationed  an'  set  around  the  lot  in  vases, 
but  I  don't  take  to  no  such  heathenish  custom 
as  that. 

"So  I've  got  to  go  through  my  declinin' 
years  without  no  suitable  companion  an'  I 
call  it  hard,  when  one  's  so  used  to  marryin' 
as  what  I  be." 

"If  they're  all  savages,"  suggested  Doro 
thy,  "  why  did  you  keep  on  marrying  ?  " 

"  Because  I  had  n't  no  other  way  to  get  my 
livin'  an'  I  was  kinder  in  the  habit  of  it. 
There  's  some  little  variety,  even  in  savages, 
an'  it's  human  natur'  to  keep  on  a-hopin.' 
I  've  had  'em  stingy  an'  generous,  drunk  an' 
sober,  peaceful  an'  disturbin'.  After  the  first 


Bofcfc's  ZCbirD  IbusbanD  ^3 


few   times,    I    learned   to  take   real   pleasure 

(Iranh 

out'n  their  queer  notions.  When  you've 
learned  to  enjoy  seein'  your  husband  make  a 
fool  of  himself  an'  have  got  enough  self-control 
not  to  tell  him  he  's  doin'  it,  nor  to  let  him  see 
where  your  pleasure  lies,  you  've  got  marryin' 
down  to  a  fine  point. 

"The  third  time,  it  was,  I  got  a  food 
crank,  an'  let  me  tell  you  right  now,  my 
dear,  them  's  the  worst  kind.  A  man  what 's 
queer  about  his  food  is  goin'  to  be  queer 
about  a'most  everything  else.  Give  me  any 
man  that  can  eat  three  square  meals  a  day  an' 
enjoy  'em,  an'  I  '11  undertake  to  live  with  him 
peaceful,  but  I  don't  go  to  the  altar  again  with 
no  food  crank,  if  I  know  it. 

"It  was  partly  my  own  fault,  too,  as  I  see 
later.  I  'd  seen  him  a-carryin'  a  passel  of 
health  food  around  in  his  pocket  an'  a-nibblin' 
at  it,  but  I  supposed  it  was  because  the  poor 
creeter  had  never  had  no  one  to  cook  proper 
for  him,  an'  I  took  a  lot  of  pleasure  out  of 
thinkin'  how  tickled  he  'd  be  when  I  made 
him  one  of  my  chicken  pies. 

"After  we  was  married,  we  took  a  honey 
moon  to  his  folks,  an'  I  '11  tell  you  right  now, 
my  dear,  that  if  there  was  more  honeymoons 


Bt  tbe  SiQn  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


ObtS. 

2)066'0 


IbusbanS 


took  beforehand  to  each  other's  folks,  there  'd 
be  less  marryin'  done  than  what  there  is. 
They  was  all  a-eatin'  hay  an'  straw  an'  oats  just 
like  the  dumb  creeters  they  disdained,  an'  a- 
carryin'  wheat  an'  corn  around  in  their  pockets 
to  piece  out  with  between  greens. 

"So  the  day  we  got  home,  never  knowin' 
what  I  was  a-stirrin'  up  for  myself,  I  turned 
in  an'  made  a  chicken  an'  oyster  pie,  an'  it 
could  n't  be  beat,  not  if  I  do  say  it  as  should  n't. 
The  crust  was  as  soft  an'  flaky  an'  brown  an' 
crisp  at  the  edges  as  any  I  ever  turned  out,  an' 
the  inside  was  all  chicken  an'  oysters  well- 
nigh  smothered  in  a  thick,  creamy  yellow 
gravy. 

"Well,  sir,  I  brung  in  that  pie,  an'  I  set  it 
on  the  table,  an'  I  chirped  out  that  dinner  was 
ready,  an'  he  come,  an' — my  dear  !  You 
never  saw  such  goins'-on  in  all  your  born 
days  !  Considerin'  that  not  eatin'  animals 
makes  people's  dispositions  mild  an'  pleasant, 
it  was  sunthin'  terrible,  an'  me  all  the  time  as 
innercent  as  a  lamb! 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  the  things  my 
new-made  husband  said  to  me.  If  chickens 
an'  oysters  was  human,  1  '11  bet  they  'd  have 
sued  him  for  slander.  He  said  that  oysters 


/IDrs.  H>ofcfc's  TTbfrfc  twsbanfc 


185 


was  '  the  scavengers  of  the  sea  ' — yes  'm, 
them  's  his  very  words,  an'  that  chickens  was 
even  worse.  He  went  on  to  tell  me  how 
they  et  worms  an'  potato  bugs  an'  beetles  an' 
goodness  knows  what  else,  an'  that  he  wa'  n't 
goin'  to  turn  the  temple  of  his  body  into  no 
slaughter-house.  He  asked  me  if  I  desired  to 
eat  dead  animals,  an'  when  he  insisted  on  an 
answer,  I  told  him  I  certainly  should  n't  care 
to  eat  'em  less  'n  they  was  dead,  and  from 
then  on  it  was  worse  'n  ever. 

"  He  said  that  no  dead  animal  was  goin'  to 
be  interred  in  the  insides  of  him  or  his  lawful 
wife,  an'  he  was  goin'  to  see  to  it.  It  come 
out  then  that  he  'd  never  tasted  meat  an' 
had  n't  rightly  sensed  what  he  was  missin'. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  some  women  would  have 
took  the  wrong  tack  an'  would  have  argyfied 
with  him.  There  's  never  no  use  in  argyfyin' 
with  a  husband,  an'  never  no  need  to,  'cause 
if  you  're  set  on  it,  there  's  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  choose  from.  When  he  'd  talked 
himself  hoarse  an'  was  beginnin'  to  calm 
down  again,  I  took  the  floor. 

"  'Say  no  more,'  says  I,  calm  an'  collected- 
like.  '  This  here  is  your  house  an'  the  things 
you  're  accustomed  to  eatin'  can  be  cooked  in 


E>eab 
Bntmals 


i86 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


/Sirs. 
2>oN>'s 


it,  no  matter  what  they  be.  If  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  the  slops  together,  I  reckon  I  can 
learn,  not  being  a  plum  idjit.  If  you  want 
baked  chicken  feed  and  boiled  hay,  I  'm  here 
to  bake  'em  and  boil  'em  for  you.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  speak  once  in  a  polite  manner 
and  it  '11  be  done.  I  must  insist  on  the  polite 
ness,  howsumever,'  says  I.  '  I  don't  propose  to 
live  with  any  man  what  gets  the  notion  a 
woman  ceases  to  be  a  lady  when  she  marries 
him.  A  creeter  that  thinks  so  poor  of  him 
self  as  that  ain't  fit  to  be  my  husband,'  says  I, 
'  nor  no  other  decent  woman's." 

"At  that  he  apologised  some,  an'  when  a 
husband  apologises,  my  dear,  it's  the  same  as 
if  he  'd  et  dirt  at  your  feet.  '  The  least  said 
the  soonest  mended,'  says  I,  an'  after  that,  he 
never  had  nothin'  to  complain  of. 

"  But  I  knowed  what  his  poor,  cranky  sys 
tem  needed,  an'  I  knowed  how  to  get  it  into 
him,  especially  as  he  'd  never  tasted  meat  in 
all  his  life.  From  that  time  on,  he  never  saw 
no  meat  on  our  table,  nor  no  chickens,  nor 
sea  scavengers,  nor  nothin',  but  all  day, 
while  he  was  gone,  I  was  busy  with  my  soup 
pot,  a-makin'  condensed  extracts  of  meat  for 
flavourin'  vegetables  an'  sauces  an'  so  on. 


H)o&&'s  Ubirfc  fmsbanfc 


187 


"  He  took  mightily  to  my  cookin'  an'  fre 
quently  said  he  'd  never  et  such  exquisite  vic 
tuals.  I'  d  make  cream  soups  for  him,  an'  in 
every  one,  there'  d  be  over  a  cupful  of  solid 
meat  jelly,  as  rich  as  the  juice  you  find  in  the 
pan  when  you  cook  a  first-class  roast  of  beef. 
I'd  stew  potatoes  in  veal  stock,  and  cook  rice 
slow  in  water  that  had  had  a  chicken  boiled 
to  rags  in  it.  Once  I  put  a  cupful  of  raw 
beef  juice  in  a  can  of  tomatoes  I  was  cookin' 
and  he  et  a'most  all  of  'em. 

"As  he  kep'  on  havin'  more  confidence  in 
me,  1  kep'  on  usin'  more  an'  more,  an'  a-usin' 
oyster  liquor  for  flavourin'  in  most  everything 
durin'  the  R  months.  Once  he  found  nearly 
a  bushel  of  clam-shells  out  behind  the  house 
an'  wanted  to  know  what  they  was  an'  what 
they  was  doin'  there.  I  told  him  the  fish 
man  had  give  'em  to  me  for  a  border  for  my 
flower  beds,  which  was  true.  I  'd  only  paid 
for  the  clams — there  wa'  n  't  nothin'  said  about 
the  shells — an'  the  juice  from  them  clams 
livened  up  his  soup  an'  vegetables  for  over  a 
week.  There  wa'  n't  no  day  that  he  did  n  't 
have  the  vital  elements  of  from  one  to  four 
pounds  of  meat  put  in  his  food,  an'  all  the 
time,  he  was  gettin'  happier  an'  healthier  an' 


exquisite 
Victuals 


i88 


Ht  tbe  SiQn  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


flftrs. 


Ubirti 


more  peaceful  to  live  with.  When  he  died, 
he  was  as  mild  as  a  spring  lamb  with  mint 
sauce  on  it. 

"Now,  my  dear,  some  women  would  have 
told  him  what  they  was  doin',  either  after  he 
got  to  likin'  the  cookin'  or  when  he  was  on 
his  death-bed  an'  could  n  't  help  himself,  but  I 
never  did.  I  own  that  it  took  self-control 
not  to  do  it,  but  I  'd  learned  my  lesson  from 
havin'  been  married  twicet  before  an'  never 
havin'  fit  any  to  speak  of.  I  had  to  take  my 
pleasure  from  seein'  him  eat  a  bowl  of  rice 
that  had  a  whole  chicken  in  it,  exceptin'  only 
the  bones  and  fibres  of  its  mortal  frame,  an'  a- 
lappin'  up  mebbe  a  pint  of  tomato  soup  that 
was  founded  on  eight  nice  pork  chops.  I'm 
a-tellin'  you  all  this  merely  to  show  you  my 
point.  Every  day,  Henry  was  makin'  a  blame 
fool  of  himself  without  knowin'  it.  He  'd 
prattle  by  the  hour  of  slaughter-houses  an' 
human  cemeteries  an'  all  the  time  he  'd  be 
honin'  for  his  next  meal. 

"He  used  to  say  as  how  it  was  dretful 
wicked  to  kill  the  dumb  animals  for  food,  an'  I 
allers  said  that  there  was  nothin'  to  hinder  his 
buyin'  as  many  as  he  could  afford  to  an'  savin' 
their  lives  by  pennin'  'em  up  in  the  back  yard, 


.  H>o&&'s  TTbirfc  fwsbaito  189 


an'  a-feedin'  'em  the  things  they  liked  best  to 
eat  till  they  died  of  old  age  or  sunthin'.  I 
told  him  they  was  all  vegetarians,  the  same  as 
he  was,  an'  they  could  live  together  peaceful 
an'  happy.  I  even  pointed  out  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  do  it,  an'  that  if  all  believers  would  do 
the  same,  the  dread  slaughter-houses  would 
soon  be  a  thing  of  the  past,  but  I  ain't  never 
seen  no  food  crank  yet  that  's  advanced  that 
far  in  his  humanity. 

"I  never  told  him  a  single  word  about  it, 
nor  even  hinted  it  to  him,  nor  told  nobody 
else,  though  I  often  felt  wicked  to  think  I  was 
keepin'  so  much  pleasure  to  myself,  but  my 
time  is  comin'. 

"  When  I  'm  dead  an'  have  gone  to  heaven, 
the  first  thing  I  'm  goin'  to  do  is  to  hunt  up 
Henry.  They  say  there  ain  't  no  marriage  nor 
givin'  in  marriage  up  there,  but  I  reckon  there  's 
seven  men  there  that  '11  at  least  recognise  their 
wife  when  they  see  her  a-comin'  in.  I  'm  goin' 
to  pick  up  my  skirts  an'  take  off  my  glasses, 
so  's  I  '11  be  all  ready  to  skedaddle,  for  I  expect 
to  leave  my  rheumatiz  behind  me,  my  dear, 
when  I  go  to  heaven  —  leastways,  no  place 
will  be  heaven  for  me  that  's  got  rheumatiz  in 
it  —  an'  then  I  'm  goin'  to  say  :  '  Henry,  in  all 


Ht  the  Sign  ot  tbe 


Are. 


the  four  years  you  was  livin'  with  me,  you 
was  eatin'  meat,  an'  you  never  knowed  it. 
You  're  nothin'  but  a  human  cemetery.'  Oh, 
my  dear,  it 's  worth  while  dyin'  when  you 
know  you  're  goin'  to  have  pleasure  like  that 
at  the  other  end  !  " 


XII 

fber  (Bift  to  tbe 

"  I  regret,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Lawyer 
1  Bradford,  twisting  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
"that  I  can  offer  you  no  encouragement 
whatsoever.  The  will  is  clear  and  explicit  in 
every  detail,  and  there  are  no  grounds  for  a 
contest.  1  am,  perhaps,  trespassing  upon  the 
wishes  of  my  client  in  giving  you  this  infor 
mation,  but  if  you  are  remaining  here  with 
the  hope  of  pecuniary  profit,  you  are  remain 
ing  here  unnecessarily." 

He  rose  as  though  to  indicate  that  the  inter 
view  was  at  an  end,  but  Mrs.  Holmes  was 
not  to  be  put  away  in  that  fashion.  Her  eyes 
were  blazing  and  her  weak  chin  trembled 
with  anger. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  demanded, 
"that  Ebeneezer  voluntarily  died  without 
making  some  sort  of  provision  for  me  and 
my  helpless  little  children  ?" 


191 


•no 

JEncour* 
agement 


at  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*3lantern 


fter  Qift 
to  tbe 


"Your  distinguished  relation,"  answered 
Mr.  Bradford,  slowly,  "certainly  died  volun 
tarily.  He  announced  the  date  of  his  death 
some  weeks  before  it  actually  occurred,  and 
superintended  the  making  of  his  own  coffin. 
He  wrote  out  minute  directions  for  his  obse 
quies,  had  his  grave  dug,  and  his  shroud 
made,  burned  his  papers,  rearranged  his 
books,  made  his  will — and  was  found  dead 
in  his  bed  on  the  morning  of  the  day  set  for 
his  departure.  A  methodical  person,"  mut 
tered  the  old  man,  half  to  himself;  "a  most 
methodical  and  systematic  person." 

Mrs.  Holmes  shuddered.  She  was  not  or 
dinarily  a  superstitious  woman,  but  there  was 
something  uncanny  in  this  open  partnership 
with  Death. 

"There  was  a  diamond  pin,"  she  sug 
gested,  moodily,  "worth,  I  should  think, 
some  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred  dollars. 
Ebeneezer  gave  it  to  dear  Rebecca  on  their 
wedding  day,  and  she  always  said  it  was 
to  be  mine.  Have  you  any  idea  where 
it  is  ?  " 

Mr.  Bradford  fidgeted.  "  If  it  was  intended 
for  you,"  he  said,  finally,  "it  will  be  given 
to  you  at  the  proper  time,  or  you  will  be 


Der  <5ift  to  tbe  Worlfc 


directed  to  its  location.  Mrs.  Judson  died, 
did  she  not,  about  three  weeks  after  their 
marriage  ?  " 

"Yes,"  snapped  Mrs.  Holmes,  readily  per 
ceiving  the  line  of  his  thought,  "and  I  saw 
her  twice  in  those  three  weeks.  Both  times 
she  spoke  of  the  pin,  which  she  wore  con 
stantly,  and  said  that  if  anything  happened  to 
her,  she  wanted  me  to  have  it,  but  that  old 
miser  hung  on  to  it." 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Bradford,  a  faint  flush 
mounting  to  his  temples  as  he  opened  the 
office  door,  "you  are  speaking  of  my  Colonel, 
under  whom  I  served  in  the  war.  He  was 
my  best  friend,  and  though  he  is  dead,  it  is 
still  my  privilege  to  protect  him.  I  bid  you 
good  afternoon! " 

She  did  not  perceive  until  long  afterward 
that  she  had  practically  been  ejected  from  the 
legal  presence.  Even  then,  she  was  so  intent 
upon  the  point  at  issue  that  she  was  not 
offended,  as  at  another  time  she  certainly 
would  have  been. 

"He  's  lying,"  she  said  to  herself,  "they  're 
all  lying.  There  's  money  hidden  in  that 
house,  and  I  know  it,  and  what  's  more,  I  'm 
going  to  have  it!  " 


194 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'=Xantern 


Iber  ®tft 
to  tbe 

TOlcr  lt> 


She  had  searched  her  own  rooms  on  the 
night  of  her  arrival,  but  found  nothing,  and 
the  attic,  so  far,  had  yielded  her  naught  save 
discouragement  and  dust.  "To  think."  she 
continued,  mentally,  "that  after  two  of  my 
children  were  born  here  and  named  for  them, 
that  we  are  left  in  this  way!  I  call  it  a  shame, 
a  disgrace,  an  outrage!  " 

Her  anger  swiftly  cooled,  however,  as  she 
went  into  the  house,  and  her  fond  sight  rested 
upon  her  darlings.  Willie  had  a  ball  and  had 
already  broken  two  of  the  front  windows. 
The  small  Rebecca  was  under  the  sofa,  tem 
pering  the  pleasure  of  life  for  Claudius  Tibe 
rius,  while  young  Ebeneezer,  having  found  a 
knife  somewhere,  was  diligently  scratching 
the  melodeon. 

"Just  look,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes,  in  delighted 
awe,  as  Dorothy  entered  the  room.  "Don't 
make  any  noise,  or  you  will  disturb  Ebbie. 
He  is  such  a  sensitive  child  that  the  sound  of 
a  strange  voice  will  upset  him.  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  like  those  figures  he  is  drawing 
on  the  melodeon  ?  I  believe  he  's  going  to  be 
an  artist! " 

Crushed  as  she  was  in  spirit  by  her  uncon 
genial  surroundings,  Dorothy  still  had  enough 


1ber  Gift  to  tbe  TKHorlfc 


temper  left  to  be  furiously  angry.  In  these 
latter  days,  however,  she  had  gained  largely 
in  self-control,  and  now  only  bit  her  lips 
without  answering. 

But  Mrs.  Holmes  would  not  have  heard 
her,  even  if  she  had  replied.  A  sudden  yowl 
from  the  distressed  Claudius  impelled  Dorothy 
to  move  the  sofa  and  rescue  him. 

"How  cruel  you  are!"  commented  Mrs. 
Holmes.  "The  idea  of  taking  Rebbie's  play 
thing  away  from  her!  Give  it  back  this 
instant! " 

Mrs.  Carr  put  the  cat  out  and  returned  with 
a  defiant  expression  on  her  face,  which  roused 
Mrs.  Holmes  to  action.  "Willie,"  she  com 
manded,  "go  out  and  get  the  kitty  for  your 
little  sister.  There,  there,  Rebbie,  darling, 
don't  cry  any  more!  Brother  has  gone  to  get 
the  kitty.  Don't  cry!  " 

But  "  brother  "  had  not  gone.  "Chase  it 
yourself,"  he  remarked,  coolly.  "I  'm  going 
out  to  the  barn." 

"Dear  Willie's  individuality  is  developing 
every  day,"  Mrs.  Holmes  went  on,  smoothly. 
"There,  there,  Rebbie,  don't  cry  any  more. 
Go  and  tell  Mrs.  Smithers  to  give  you  a  big 
piece  of  bread  with  lots  of  butter  and  jam  on 


196 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


fter  (Sift 
to  tbe 
TKHorlfc 


it.  Tell  her  mamma  said  so.  Run  along, 
that 's  a  nice  little  girl." 

Rude  squares,  triangles,  and  circles  ap 
peared  as  by  magic  on  the  shining  surface 
of  the  melodeon,  the  young  artist  being  not 
at  all  disturbed  by  the  confusion  about 
him. 

"I  am  blessed  in  my  children,"  Mrs. 
Holmes  went  on,  happily.  "  I  often  wonder 
what  I  have  done  that  I  should  have  so  per 
fect  a  boy  as  Willie  for  my  very  own.  Every 
body  admires  him  so  that  I  dwell  in  constant 
fear  of  kidnappers." 

"I  wouldn't  worry,"  said  Dorothy,  with 
ill-concealed  sarcasm.  "Anybody  who  took 
him  would  bring  him  back  inside  of  two 
hours." 

"I  try  to  think  so,"  returned  the  mother, 
with  a  deep  sigh.  "Willie's  indomitable 
will  is  my  deepest  comfort.  He  gets  it  from 
my  side  of  the  family.  None  of  the  children 
take  after  their  father  at  all.  Ebbie  was  a 
little  like  his  father's  folks  at  first,  but  I  soon 
got  it  out  of  him  and  made  him  altogether 
like  my  people.  I  do  not  think  anybody 
could  keep  Willie  away  from  me  except  by 
superior  physical  force.  He  absolutely  adores 


•foer  Gift  to  tbe  Worlo 


197 


his  mother,  as  my  other  children  do.  You 
never  saw  such  beautiful  sentiment  as  they 
have.  The  other  day,  now,  when  I  went 
away  and  left  Rebbie  alone  in  my  apartment, 
she  took  down  my  best  hat  and  put  it  on. 
The  poor  little  thing  wanted  to  be  near  her 
mother.  Is  it  not  touching  ?  " 

"  It  is  indeed,"  Dorothy  assented,  dryly. 

"My  children  have  never  been  punished," 
continued  Mrs.  Holmes,  now  auspiciously 
launched  upon  her  favourite  theme.  "It  has 
never  been  necessary.  I  rule  them  entirely 
through  love,  and  they  are  so  accustomed  to 
my  methods  that  they  bitterly  resent  any  in 
terference  by  outsiders.  Why,  just  before  we 
came  here,  Ebbie,  young  as  he  is,  put  out  the 
left  eye  of  a  woman  who  tried  to  take  his  dog 
away  from  him.  He  did  it  with  his  little  fist 
and  with  apparently  no  effort  at  all.  Is  it  not 
wonderful  to  see  such  strength  and  power  of 
direction  in  one  so  young  ?  The  woman  was 
in  the  hospital  when  we  came  away,  and  I 
trust  by  this  time,  she  has  learned  not  to  in 
terfere  with  Ebbie.  No  one  is  allowed  to 
interfere  with  my  children." 

"Apparently  not,"  remarked  Mrs.  Carr, 
somewhat  cynically. 


Beautiful 
Sentiment 


198 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe 


fjec  (Bit  t 
to  tbe 

tdorlS 


"It  is  beautiful  to  be  a  mother — the  most 
beautiful  thing  on  earth!  Just  think  how 
much  I  have  done  for  the  world!"  Her  sal 
low  face  glowed  with  the  conscious  virtue  be 
stowed  by  one  of  the  animal  functions  upon 
those  who  have  performed  it. 

"  In  what  way  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Carr,  wholly 
missing  the  point. 

"Why,  in  raising  Willie  and  Ebbie  and 
Rebbie!  No  public  service  can  for  a  moment 
be  compared  with  that!  All  other  things  sink 
into  insignificance  beside  the  glorious  gift  of 
maternity.  Look  at  Willie — a  form  that  a 
sculptor  might  dream  of  for  a  lifetime  and 
never  hope  to  imitate — a  head  that  already  has 
inspired  great  artists!  The  gentleman  who 
took  Willie's  last  tintype  said  that  he  had 
never  seen  such  perfect  lines,  and  insisted  on 
taking  several  for  fear  something  should  hap 
pen  to  Willie.  He  wanted  to  keep  some  of 
them  for  himself — it  was  pathetic,  the  way  he 
pleaded,  but  I  made  him  sell  me  all  of  them. 
Willie  is  mine  and  I  have  the  first  right  to  his 
tintypes.  And  a  lady  once  painted  Willie  at 
his  play  in  black  and  white  and  sent  it  to  one 
of  the  popular  weeklies.  I  have  no  doubt 
they  gave  her  a  fortune  for  it,  but  it  never 


1ber  <5ttt  to  tbe 


199 


occurred  to  her  to  give  us  anything  more  than 
one  copy  of  the  paper." 

"Which  paper  was  it?" 

"One  of  the  so-called  comic  weeklies. 
You  know  they  publish  superb  artistic  things. 
I  think  they  are  doing  a  wonderful  work  in 
educating  the  masses  to  a  true  appreciation  of 
art.  One  of  the  wonderful  parts  of  it  was 
that  Willie  knew  all  about  it  and  was  not  in 
the  least  conceited.  Any  other  child  would 
have  been  set  up  at  being  a  model  for  a  great 
artist,  but  Willie  was  not  affected  at  all.  He 
has  so  much  character!  " 

At  this  point  the  small  Rebecca  entered, 
dragging  her  doll  by  one  arm,  and  munching 
a  thick  slice  of  bread,  thinly  coated  with 
molasses. 

"I  distinctly  said  jam,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Holmes.  "Servants  are  so  heedless.  I  do 
not  know  that  molasses  is  good  for  Rebbie. 
What  would  you  think,  Mrs.  Carr?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  hurt  her  if  she  does  n't 
get  too  much  of  it." 

"There's  no  danger  of  her  getting  too 
much  of  it.  Mrs.  Smithers  is  too  stingy  for 
that.  Why,  only  yesterday,  Willie  told  me 
that  she  refused  to  let  him  dip  his  dry  bread 


B 

TOott&crs 
ful  IBlotl! 


at  tbe 


of  tbe  3acfe*o'*!tantern 


fxr  Oift 
to  tbe 

IdorlB 


in  the  cream,  and  gave  him  a  cup  of  plain 
milk  instead.  Willie  knows  when  his  system 
needs  cream  and  I  want  him  to  have  all  the 
nourishment  he  can  get.  The  idea  that  she 
should  think  she  knew  more  about  it  than 
Willie!  She  was  properly  punished  for  it, 
however.  I  myself  saw  Willie  throw  a  stick 
of  stove  wood  at  her  and  hit  her  foolish  head 
with  it.  I  think  Willie  is  going  to  be  a  sol 
dier,  a  commander  of  an  army.  He  has  so 
much  executive  ability  and  never  misses  what 
he  aims  at. 

"  Rebbie,  don't  chew  on  that  side,  darling; 
remember  your  loose  tooth  is  there.  Mamma 
does  n't  want  it  to  come  out." 

"Why?"  asked  Dorothy,  with  a  gleam  of 
interest. 

"  Because  I  can't  bear  to  have  her  little  baby 
teeth  come  out  and  make  her  grow  up!  I 
want  to  keep  her  just  as  she  is.  I  have  all  my 
children's  teeth,  and  some  day  I  am  going  to 
have  them  set  into  a  beautiful  bracelet.  Look 
at  that!  How  generous  and  unselfish  of 
Rebbie!  She  is  trying  to  share  her  bread 
with  her  doll.  I  believe  Rebbie  is  going  to 
be  a  philanthropist,  or  a  college-settlement 
worker.  See,  she  is  trying  to  give  the  doll 


Dec  Gift  to  tbe 


201 


the  molasses — the  very  best  part  of  it.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  beautiful  spirit  in  one  so 
young  ?" 

Before  Mrs.  Carr  could  answer,  young 
Ebeneezer  had  finished  his  wood  carving  and 
had  grabbed  his  protesting  twin  by  the  hair. 

"There,  there,  Rebbie, "  soothed  the  mother, 
"don't  cry.  Brother  was  only  loving  little 
sister.  Be  careful,  Ebbie.  You  can  take  hold 
of  sister's  hair,  but  not  too  hard.  They  love 
each  other  so,"  she  went  on.  "Ebbie  is 
really  sentimental  about  Rebbie.  He  loves  to 
touch  and  stroke  her  glorious  blonde  hair. 
Did  you  ever  see  such  hair  as  Rebbie's  ?" 

It  came  into  Mrs.  Carr's  mind  that  "Rebbie's" 
hair  looked  more  like  a  plate  of  cold-slaw  than 
anything  else,  but  she  was  too  wise  to  put 
the  thought  into  words. 

Willie  slid  down  the  railing  and  landed  in 
the  hall  with  a  loud  whoop  of  glee.  "How 
beautiful  to  hear  the  sounds  of  childish  mirth," 
said  Mrs.  Holmes.  "How " 

From  upstairs  came  a  cry  of  "  Help !  Help !  " 

Muffled  though  the  voice  was,  it  plainly 
issued  from  Uncle  Israel's  room,  and  under 
the  impression  that  the  bath  cabinet  had 
finally  set  the  house  on  fire,  Mrs.  Carr  ran 


H 

Beautiful 
Spirit 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


tcr  <Blft 
to  tbe 


hastily  upstairs,  followed  closely  by  Mrs. 
Holmes,  who  was  flanked  at  the  rear  by  the 
grinning  Willie  and  the  interested  twins. 

From  a  confused  heap  of  bedding,  Uncle 
Israel's  scarlet  ankles  waved  frantically.  ' '  Help ! 
Help! "  he  cried  again,  his  voice  being  almost 
wholly  deadened  by  the  pillows,  which  had 
fallen  on  him  after  the  collapse. 

Dorothy  helped  the  trembling  old  man  to 
his  feet.  He  took  a  copious  draught  from  the 
pain-killer,  then  sat  down  on  his  trunk,  much 
perturbed. 

Investigation  proved  that  the  bed  cord  had 
been  cut  in  a  dozen  places  by  some  one  work 
ing  underneath,  and  that  the  entire  structure 
had  instantly  caved  in  when  Uncle  Israel  had 
crept  up  to  the  summit  of  his  bed  and  lain 
down  to  take  his  afternoon  nap.  When  ques 
tioned,  Willie  proudly  admitted  that  he  had 
done  it. 

"  Go  down  and  ask  Mrs.  Smithers  for  the 
clothes-line,"  commanded  Dorothy,  sternly. 

"I  won't,"  said  Willie,  smartly,  putting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"You  had  better  go  yourself,  Mrs.  Carr," 
suggested  Mrs.  Holmes.  "Willie  is  tired. 
He  has  played  hard  all  day  and  needs  rest. 


1ber  (Bift  to  tbe 


203 


He  must  not  on  any  account  over-exert  him 
self,  and,  besides,  I  never  allow  any  one  else 
to  send  my  children  on  errands.  They  obey 
me  and  me  alone." 

"Go  yourself,"  said  Willie,  having  gathered 
encouragement  from  the  maternal  source. 

"  I  '11  go,"  wheezed  Uncle  Israel.  "  I  can't 
sleep  in  no  other  bed.  Ebeneezer's  beds  is 
all  terrible  drafty,  and  I  took  two  colds  at 
once  sleepin'  in  one  of  'em  when  I  knowed 
better  'n  to  try  it."  He  tottered  out  of  the 
room,  the  very  picture  of  wretchedness. 

"Was  it  not  clever  of  Willie?"  whispered 
Mrs.  Holmes,  admiringly,  to  Dorothy.  "So 
much  ingenuity — such  a  fine  sense  of  humor!  " 

"  If  he  were  my  child,"  snapped  Dorothy, 
at  last  losing  her  admirable  control  of  a  tem 
pestuous  temper,  "he  'd  be  soundly  thrashed 
at  least  three  times  a  week!  " 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Holmes, 
contemptuously.  "These  married  old  maids, 
who  have  no  children  of  their  own,  are  al 
ways  wholly  out  of  sympathy  with  a  child's 
nature." 

"When  I  was  young,"  retorted  Mrs.  Carr, 
"children  were  not  allowed  to  rule  the  entire 
household.  There  was  a  current  superstition 


B  fine 
Sense  of 
tmmoi- 


204 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  5acft*o'*%antern 


*°   tne   en°ect    that    older    people   had    some 

ri«hts-" 

"And  yet,"  Mrs.  Holmes  continued,  medi 
tatively,  "as  the  editor  of  The  Ladies'  Own 
so  pertinently  asks,  what  is  a  house  for  if 
not  to  bring  up  a  child  in  ?  The  purpose  of 
architecture  is  defeated,  where  there  are  no 
children." 

Uncle  Israel,  accompanied  by  Dick,  hobbled 
into  the  room  with  the  clothes-line.  Mrs. 
Holmes  discreetly  retired,  followed  by  her 
offspring,  and,  late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
Dorothy  and  Dick  were  well-nigh  fagged  out, 
the  structure  was  in  place  again.  Tremu 
lously  the  exhausted  owner  lay  down  upon 
it,  and  asked  that  his  supper  be  sent  to  his 
room. 

By  skilful  manoeuvring  with  Mrs.  Smith- 
ers,  Dick  compelled  the  proud-spirited  Willie 
to  take  up  Uncle  Israel's  tray  and  wait  for  it. 
"I  '11  tell  my  mother,"  whimpered  the  sor 
rowful  one. 

"I  hope  you  will,"  replied  Dick,  signifi 
cantly;  but  for  some  reason  of  his  own,  Willie 
neglected  to  mention  it. 

At  dinner-time,  Mr.  Perkins  drew  a  rolled 
manuscript,  tied  with  a  black  ribbon,  from  his 


Der  attt  to  tbe  Morlfc 


205 


breast  pocket,  and,  without  preliminary,  pro 
ceeded  to  read  as  follows: 


Hfface 

we love& 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   EBENEEZER  JUDSON 

A  face  we  loved  has  vanished, 
A  voice  we  adored  is  now  still, 

There  is  no  longer  any  music 
In  the  tinkling  rill. 

His  hat  is  empty  of  his  head, 
His  snuff-box  has  no  sneezer, 

His  cane  is  idle  in  the  hall 
For  gone  is  Ebeneezer. 

Within  the  house  we  miss  him, 
Let  fall  the  sorrowing  tear, 

Yet  shall  we  gather  as  was  our  wont 
Year  after  sunny  year. 

He  took  such  joy  in  all  his  friends 

That  he  would  have  it  so; 
He  left  his  house  to  relatives 

But  none  of  us  need  go. 

In  fact,  we  're  all  related, 

Sister,  friend,  and  brother; 
And  in  this  hour  of  our  grief 

We  must  console  each  other. 


He  would  not  like  to  have  us  sad, 
Our  smiles  were  once  his  pleasure 

And  though  we  cannot  smile  at  him, 
His  memory  is  our  treasure. 


2O6 


at  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


Uer  Gift 
to  tbe 


When  he  had  finished,  there  was  a  solemn 
silence,  which  was  at  last  relieved  by  Mrs. 
Dodd.  "  Poetry  broke  out  in  my  first  hus 
band's  family,"  she  said,  "but  with  sulphur 
an'  molasses  an'  quinine  an'  plenty  of  wet- 
sheet  packs  it  was  finally  cured." 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  the  poet, 
indulgently.  "Your  aura  is  not  harmonious 
with  mine." 

"Your  —  what?"  demanded  Mrs.  Dodd, 
pricking  up  her  ears. 

"My  aura,"  explained  Mr.  Perkins,  flush 
ing  faintly.  "Each  individuality  gives  out  a 
spiritual  vapour,  like  a  cloud,  which  sur 
rounds  one.  These  are  all  in  different  colours, 
and  the  colours  change  with  the  thoughts  we 
think.  Black  and  purple  are  the  gloomy, 
morose  colours;  deep  blue  and  the  paler  shades 
show  a  sombre  outlook  on  life;  green  is  more 
cheerful,  though  still  serious;  yellow  and 
orange  show  ambition  and  envy,  and  red  and 
white  are  emblematic  of  all  the  virtues — red 
of  the  noble,  martial  qualities  of  man  and 
white  of  the  angelic  disposition  of  woman," 
he  concluded,  with  a  meaning  glance  at 
Elaine,  who  had  been  much  interested  all 
along. 


1ber  (Bitt  to  tbe  TKHorlfc 


207 


"What  perfectly  lovely  ideas,"  she  said,  in 
a  tone  which  made  Dick's  blood  boil.  "  Are 
they  original  with  you,  Mr.  Perkins?" 

The  poet  cleared  his  throat.  "  I  cannot 
say  that  they  are  wholly  original  with  me," 
he  admitted,  reluctantly,  "though  of  course  I 
have  modified  and  amplified  them  to  accord 
with  my  own  individuality.  They  are  doing 
wonderful  things  now  in  the  psychological 
laboratories.  They  have  a  system  of  tubes  so 
finely  constructed  that  by  breathing  into  one 
of  them  a  person's  mental  state  is  actually 
expressed.  An  angry  person,  breathing  into 
one  of  these  finely  organised  tubes,  makes  a 
decided  change  in  the  colour  of  the  vapour." 

"Humph!"  snorted  Mrs.  Dodd,  pushing 
back  her  chair  briskly.  "I've  been  married 
seven  times,  an'  I  never  had  to  breathe  into 
no  tube  to  let  any  of  my  husbands  know 
when  I  was  mad!  " 

The  poet  crimsoned,  but  otherwise  ignored 
the  comment.  "If  you  will  come  into  the 
parlour  just  as  twilight  is  falling,"  he  said  to 
the  others,  "I  will  gladly  recite  my  ode  on 
Spring." 

Subdued  thanks  came  from  the  company, 
though  Harlan  excused  himself  on  the  score 


208 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Dec  (Sift 
to  tbe 

"WHorlb 


of  his  work,  and  Mrs.  Holmes  was  obliged  to 
put  the  twins  to  bed.  When  twilight  fell,  no 
one  was  at  the  rendezvous  but  Elaine  and  the 
poet. 

"It  is  just  as  well,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"There  are  several  under  dear  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer's  roof  who  are  afflicted  with  an  inhar 
monious  aura.  With  yours  only  am  I  in  full 
accord.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  an  artist  to 
feel  such  beautiful  sympathy  with  his  work. 
Shall  I  say  it  now  ?" 

"If  you  will,"  murmured  Elaine,  deeply 
honoured  by  acquaintance  with  a  real  poet. 

Mr.  Perkins  drew  his  chair  close  to  hers, 
leaned  over  with  an  air  of  loving  confidence, 
and  began: 

Spring,  oh  Spring,  dear,  gentle  Spring, 

My  poet's  garland  do  I  bring 

To  lay  upon  thy  shining  hair 

Where  rests  a  wreath  of  flowers  so  fair. 

There  is  a  music  in  the  brook 

Which  answers  to  thy  tender  look 

And  in  thy  eyes  there  is  a  spell 

Of  soft  enchantment  too  sweet  to  tell. 

My  heart  to  thine  shall  ever  turn 

For  thou  hast  made  my  soul  to  burn 

With  rapture  far  beyond 

Elaine  screamed,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  on 
her  chair  with  her  skirts  gathered  about  her. 


1ber  (3ift  to  tbe  TKHorto 


209 


It  was  only  Claudius  Tiberius,  dressed  in  Re 
becca's  doll's  clothes,  scooting  madly  toward 
the  front  door,  but  it  served  effectually  to 
break  up  the  entertainment. 


Onl? 
ClauWus 


2IO 


B  Sensi* 
tivc  Soul 


XIII 

H  Sensitive  Soul 

UNCLE  ISRAEL  was  securely  locked  in 
for  the  night,  and  was  correspondingly 
restless.  He  felt  like  a  caged  animal,  and 
sleep,  though  earnestly  wooed,  failed  to  come 
to  his  relief.  A  powerful  draught  of  his  usual 
sleeping  potion  had  been  like  so  much  water, 
as  far  as  effect  was  concerned. 

At  length  he  got  up,  his  lifelong  habit  of 
cautious  movement  asserting  itself  even  here, 
and  with  tremulous,  withered  hands,  lighted 
his  candle.  Then  he  put  on  his  piebald  dress 
ing-gown  and  his  carpet  slippers,  and  sat  on 
the  declivity  of  his  bed,  blinking  at  the  light, 
as  wide  awake  as  any  owl. 

Presently  it  came  to  him  that  he  had  not  as 
yet  made  a  thorough  search  of  his  own  apart 
ment,  so  he  began  at  the  foundation,  so  to 
speak,  and  crawled  painfully  over  the  carpet, 
paying  special  attention  to  the  edges.  Next, 


H  Sensitive  Soul 


211 


he  fingered  the  baseboards  carefully,  rapping 
here  and  there,  as  though  he  expected  some 
significant  sound  to  penetrate  his  deafness. 
Rising,  he  went  over  the  wall  systematic 
ally,  and  at  length,  with  the  aid  of  a  chair, 
reached  up  to  the  picture-moulding.  He  had 
gone  nearly  around  the  room,  without  any 
definite  idea  of  what  he  was  searching  for, 
when  his  questioning  fingers  touched  a  small, 
metallic  object. 

A  smile  of  childlike  pleasure  transfigured 
Uncle  Israel's  wizened  old  face.  Trembling, 
he  slipped  down  from  the  chair,  falling  over 
the  bath  cabinet  in  his  descent,  and  tried  the 
key  in  the  lock.  It  fitted,  and  the  old  man 
fairly  chuckled. 

"Wait  till  I  tell  Belinda,"  he  muttered, 
delightedly.  Then  a  crafty  second  thought 
suggested  that  it  might  be  wiser  to  keep 
"  Belinda"  in  the  dark,  lest  she  might  in  some 
way  gain  possession  of  the  duplicate  key. 

"Lor',"  he  thought,  "but  how  I  pity  them 
husbands  of  her  'n.  Bet  their  graves  felt  good 
when  they  got  into  'em,  the  hull  seven  graves. 
What  with  sneerin'  at  medicines  and  things  a 
person  eats,  it  must  have  been  awful,  not  to 
mention  stealin'  of  keys  and  a-lockin'  'em 


Craft? 
Seconl> 
Ubougbt 


Ht  tbe  SiQn  of  tbe  3acfe*o'=*Xantern 


tive  Soul 


in  nights.  S'pose  the  house  had  got  afire, 
where  'd  I  be  now?"  Grasping  his  treasure 
closely,  Uncle  Israel  blew  out  his  candle  and 
tottered  to  bed,  thereafter  sleeping  the  sleep 
of  the  just. 

Mrs.  Dodd  detected  subdued  animation  in 
his  demeanour  when  he  appeared  at  breakfast 
the  following  morning,  and  wondered  what 
had  occurred. 

"You  look  's  if  sunthin'  pleasant  had  hap 
pened,  Israel,"  she  began,  in  a  sprightly 
manner. 

"Sunthin'  pleasant  has  happened,"  he  re 
turned,  applying  himself  to  his  imitation  cof 
fee  with  renewed  vigour.  "I  disremember 
when  I  've  felt  so  good  about  anythin'  before." 

"Something  pleasant  happens  every  day," 
put  in  Elaine.  The  country  air  had  made 
roses  bloom  on  her  pale  cheeks.  Her  blue 
eyes  had  new  light  in  them,  and  her  golden 
hair  fairly  shone.  She  was  far  more  beautiful 
than  the  sad,  frail  young  woman  who  had 
come  to  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  not  so  many 
weeks  before. 

"How  optimistic  you  are!"  sighed  Mr. 
Perkins,  who  was  eating  Mrs.  Smithers's  crisp, 
hot  rolls  with  a  very  unpoetic  appetite.  "To 


H  Sensitive  Soul 


213 


me,  the  world  grows  worse  every  day.  It  is 
only  a  few  noble  souls  devoted  to  the  Ideal 
and  holding  their  heads  steadfastly  above  the 
mire  of  commercialism  that  keep  our  so-called 
civilisation  from  becoming  an  absolute  hotbed 
of  greed  —  yes,  a  hotbed  of  greed,"  he  re 
peated,  the  words  sounding  unexpectedly  well. 

"Your  aura  seems  to  have  a  purple  tinge 
this  morning,"  commented  Dorothy,  slyly. 

"What  's  a  aura,  ma?"  demanded  Willie, 
with  an  unusual  thirst  for  knowledge. 

"Something  that  goes  with  a  soft  person, 
Willie,  dear,"  responded  Mrs.  Holmes,  quite 
audibly.  "  You  know  there  are  some  people 
who  have  no  backbone  at  all,  like  the  jelly-fish 
we  saw  at  the  seashore  the  year  before  dear 
papa  died." 

"  I  've  knowed  folks,"  continued  Mrs.  Dodd, 
taking  up  the  wandering  thread  of  the  dis 
course,  "what  was  so  soft  when  they  was 
little  that  their  mas  had  to  carry  'em  around 
in  a  pail  for  fear  they  'd  slop  over  and  spile 
the  carpet." 

"And  when  they  grew  up,  too,"  Dick 
ventured. 

"Some  people,"  said  Harlan,  in  a  polite  at 
tempt  to  change  the  conversation,  "never 


Ufa  Hura 


214 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'=%antern 


B  Scneis 
ttvc  Soul 


grow  up  at  all.  Their  minds  remain  at  a  fixed 
point.  We  all  know  them." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Dodd,  looking  straight 
at  the  poet,  "  we  all  know  them." 

At  this  juncture  the  sensitive  Mr.  Perkins 
rose  and  begged  to  be  excused.  It  was  the 
small  Ebeneezer  who  observed  that  he  took  a 
buttered  roll  with  him,  and  gratuitously  gave 
the  information  to  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Elaine  flushed  painfully,  and  presently  ex 
cused  herself,  following  the  crestfallen  Mr. 
Perkins  to  the  orchard,  where,  entirely  unsus 
pected  by  the  others,  they  had  a  trysting- 
place.  At  intervals,  they  met,  safely  screened 
by  the  friendly  trees,  and  communed  upon 
the  old,  idyllic  subject  of  poetry,  especially  as 
represented  by  the  unpublished  works  of 
Harold  Vernon  Perkins. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  Mr.  Perkins,"  Elaine  be 
gan,  "how  deeply  I  appreciate  your  fine,  un 
commercial  attitude.  As  you  say,  the  world 
is  sordid,  and  it  needs  men  like  you." 

The  soulful  one  ran  his  long,  bony  fingers 
through  his  mane  of  auburn  hair,  and  assented 
with  a  pleased  grunt.  "  There  are  few,  Miss 
St.  Glair,"  he  said,  "who  have  your  fine  dis 
cernment.  It  is  almost  ideal." 


H  Sensitive  Soul 


215 


"Yet  it  seems  too  bad,"  she  went  on,  "that 
the  world-wide  appreciation  of  your  artistic 
devotion  should  not  take  some  tangible  form. 
Dollars  may  be  vulgar  and  sordid,  as  you  say, 
but  still,  in  our  primitive  era,  they  are  our 
only  expression  of  value.  I  have  even  heard 
it  said,"  she  went  on,  rapidly,  "that  the 
amount  of  wealth  honestly  acquired  by  any 
individual  was,  after  all,  only  the  measure  of 
his  usefulness  to  his  race." 

"  Miss  St.  Clair!  "  exclaimed  the  poet,  deeply 
shocked ;  "  do  I  understand  that  you  are  actu 
ally  advising  me  to  sell  a  poem?" 

"Far  from  it,  Mr.  Perkins,"  Elaine  reassured 
him.  "I  was  only  thinking  that  by  having 
your  work  printed  in  a  volume,  or  perhaps  in 
the  pages  of  a  magazine,  you  could  reach  a 
wider  audience,  and  thus  accomplish  your 
ideal  of  uplifting  the  multitude." 

"I  am  pained,"  breathed  the  poet;  "inex 
pressibly  pained." 

"Then  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Elaine.  "I 
was  only  trying  to  help." 

"To  think,"  continued  Mr.  Perkins,  bit 
terly,  "of  the  soiled  fingers  of  a  labouring 
man,  a  printer,  actually  touching  these  fancies 
that  even  I  hesitate  to  pen!  Once  I  saw  the 


2l6 


tbe  Sion  of  tbe  $acfc*o'*3Lantern 


B  ScneU 
tive  Soul 


fair  white  page  of  a  book  that  had  been 
through  that  painful  experience.  You  never 
would  have  known  it,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Glair 
—  it  was  actually  filthy!" 

"I  see,"  murmured  Elaine,  duly  impressed, 
"but  are  there  not  more  favourable  condi 
tions  ?" 

"  I  have  thought  there  might  be,"  returned 
the  poet,  after  a  significant  silence,  "indeed, 
I  have  prayed  there  might  be.  In  some  little 
nook  among  the  pines,  where  the  brook  for 
ever  sings  and  the  petals  of  the  apple  blossoms 
glide  away  to  fairyland  upon  its  shining  sur 
face,  while  butterflies  float  lazily  here  and 
there,  if  reverent  hands  might  put  the  flower 
ing  of  my  genius  into  a  modest  little  book — I 
should  be  tempted,  yes,  sorely  tempted." 

"Dear  Mr.  Perkins,"  cried  Elaine,  ecstatic 
ally  clapping  her  hands,  "how  perfectly  glo 
rious  that  would  be!  To  think  how  much 
sweetness  and  beauty  would  go  into  the  book, 
if  that  were  done!  " 

"Additionally,"  corrected  Mr.  Perkins,  with 
a  slight  flush. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  mean  additionally.  One 
could  smell  the  apple  blossoms  through  the 
printed  page.  Oh,  Mr.  Perkins,  if  I  only  had 


a  Sensitive  Soul 


217 


the  means,  how  gladly  would  I  devote  my  all 
to  this  wonderful,  uplifting  work!  " 

The  poet  glanced  around  furtively,  then 
drew  closer  to  Elaine.  "I  may  tell  you,"  he 
murmured,  "in  strict  confidence,  something 
which  my  lips  have  never  breathed  before, 
with  the  assurance  that  it  will  be  as  though 
unsaid,  may  I  not?" 

"Indeed  you  may!" 

"Then,"  whispered  Mr.  Perkins,  "I  am 
living  in  that  hope.  My  dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer, 
though  now  departed,  was  a  distinguished 
patron  of  the  arts.  Many  a  time  have  I  read 
him  my  work,  assured  of  his  deep,  though  un 
expressed  sympathy,  and,  lulled  by  the  rhythm 
of  our  spoken  speech,  he  has  passed  without 
a  jar  from  my  dreamland  to  his  own.  I  know 
he  would  never  speak  of  it  to  any  one  —  dear 
Uncle  Ebeneezer  was  too  finely  grained  for 
that — but  still  I  feel  assured  that  somewhere 
within  the  walls  of  that  sorely  afflicted  house, 
a  sum  of  —  of  money  —  has  been  placed,  in 
the  hope  that  I  might  find  it  and  carry  out  this 
beautiful  work." 

"Have  you  hunted  ? "  demanded  Elaine,  her 
eyes  wide  with  wonder. 

"No — not  hunted.     I  beg  you,  do  not  use 


B  patron 
oftbe 
Brt0 


2l8 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3ach=o'*Xanteru 


B  Scnsis 
live  Soul 


so  coarse  a  word.  It  jars  upon  my  poet's 
soul  with  almost  physical  pain." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Elaine, 
"but " 

"Sometimes,"  interrupted  the  poet,  in  a 
low  tone,  "when  I  have  felt  especially  near 
to  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  spirit,  I  have  barely 
glanced  in  secret  places  where  I  have  felt  he 
might  expect  me  to  look  for  it,  but,  so  far,  I 
have  been  wholly  unsuccessful,  though  I  know 
that  I  plainly  read  his  thought." 

"Some  word — some  clue — did  he  give  you 
none?" 

"None  whatever,  except  that  once  or  twice 
he  said  that  he  would  see  that  I  was  suitably 
provided  for.  He  intimated  that  he  intended 
me  to  have  a  sum  apportioned  to  my  deserts." 

"Which  would  be  a  generous  one;  but 
now — Oh,  Mr.  Perkins,  how  can  1  help  you  ?  " 

"You  have  never  suspected,  have  you," 
asked  Mr.  Perkins,  colouring  to  his  temples, 
"  that  the  room  you  now  occupy  might  once 
have  been  my  own  ?  Have  no  poet's  dreams, 
lingering  in  the  untenanted  spaces,  claimed 
your  beauteous  spirit  in  sleep  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Perkins,  have  I  your  room?  I 
will  so  gladly  give  it  up — I " 


H  Sensitive 


219 


The  poet  raised  his  hand.     "No.    The  place 

finely 

where  you  have  walked  is  holy  ground.     Not      pbrasea 
for  the  world  would  I  dispossess  you,  but " 

A  meaning  look  did  the  rest.  "  I  see,"  said 
Elaine,  quickly  guessing  his  thought,  "you 
want  to  hunt  in  my  room.  Oh,  Mr.  Perkins, 
I  have  thoughtlessly  pained  you  again.  Can 
you  ever  forgive  me  ?  " 

"My  thoughts,"  breathed  Mr.  Perkins,  "are 
perhaps  too  finely  phrased  for  modern  speech. 
I  would  not  trespass  upon  the  place  you  have 
made  your  own,  but " 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  then  Elaine  under 
stood.  ' '  I  see, "  she  said,  submissively,  ' '  I  will 
hunt  myself.  I  mean,  I  will  glance  about  in  the 
hope  that  the  spirit  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer  may 
make  plain  to  me  what  you  seek.  And " 

"  And,"  interjected  the  poet,  quite  practical 
for  the  moment,  "  whatever  you  find  is  mine, 
for  it  was  once  my  room.  It  is  only  on 
account  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  fine  nature  and 
his  constant  devotion  to  the  Ideal  that  he  did 
not  give  it  to  me  direct.  He  knew  it  would 
pain  me  if  he  did  so.  You  will  remember?  " 

"I  will  remember.  You  need  not  fear  to 
trust  me." 

"Then    let    us    shake    hands    upon    our 


22O 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3ach*o'*Xantern 


H  Sensi= 
tivc  Soul 


compact."  For  a  moment,  Elaine's  warm, 
rosy  hand  rested  in  the  clammy,  nerveless  palm 
of  Harold  Vernon  Perkins.  "  Last  night,"  he 
sighed,  "I  could  not  sleep.  I  was  distressed 
by  noises  which  appeared  to  emanate  from 
the  apartment  of  Mr.  Skiles.  Did  you  hear 
nothing?  " 

"Nothing,"  returned  Elaine;  "I  sleep  very 
soundly." 

"The  privilege  of  unpoetic  souls,"  com 
mented  Mr.  Perkins.  "But,  as  usual,  my 
restlessness  was  not  without  definite  and 
beautiful  result.  In  the  still  watches  of  the 
night,  I  achieved  a — poem." 

"Read  it,"  cried  Elaine,  rapturously.  "Oh, 
if  I  might  hear  it!  " 

Thus  encouraged,  Mr.  Perkins  drew  a  roll 
from  his  breast  pocket.  A  fresh  blue  ribbon 
held  it  in  cylindrical  form,  and  the  drooping 
ends  waved  in  careless,  artistic  fashion. 

"As  you  might  expect,  if  you  knew  about 
such  things,"  he  began,  clearing  his  throat, 
and  all  unconscious  of  the  rapid  approach  of 
Mr.  Chester,  "it  is  upon  sleep.  It  is  done 
in  the  sonnet  form,  a  very  beautiful  measure 
which  I  have  made  my  own.  I  will  read  it 
now. 


H  Sensitive  Soul 


"SONNET  ON   SLEEP 

"  O  Sleep,  that  fillst  the  human  breast  with  peace, 

When  night's  dim  curtains  swing  from  out  the  West, 
In  what  way,  in  what  manner,  could  we  rest 

Were  thy  beneficent  offices  to  cease  ? 

O  Sleep,  thou  art  indeed  the  snowy  fleece 
Upon  Day's  lamb.      A  welcome  guest 
That  comest  alike  to  palace  and  to  nest 

And  givest  the  cares  of  life  a  glad  release. 
O  Sleep,  I  beg  thee,  rest  upon  my  eyes, 
For  I  am  weary,  worn,  and  sad, — indeed, 

Of  thy  great  mercies  have  1  piteous  need 
So  come  and  lead  me  off  to  Paradise." 

His  voice  broke  at  the  end,  not  so  much 
from  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  the  lines  as  from 
perceiving  Mr.  Chester  close  at  hand,  grinning 
like  the  fabled  pussy-cat  of  Cheshire,  except 
that  he  did  not  fade  away,  leaving  only  the  grin. 

Elaine  felt  the  alien  presence  and  looked 
around.  Woman-like,  she  quickly  grasped 
the  situation. 

"  I  have  been  having  a  rare  treat,  Mr.  Ches 
ter,"  she  said,  in  her  smoothest  tones.  "Mr. 
Perkins  has  very  kindly  been  reading  to  me  his 
beautiful  Sonnet  on  Sleep,  composed  during  a 
period  of  wakefulness  last  night.  Did  you 
hear  it  ?  Is  it  not  a  most  unusual  sonnet  ?  " 

"It  is,  indeed,"  answered  Dick,  dryly.  "I 
never  before  had  the  privilege  of  hearing  one 
that  contained  only  twelve  lines.  Dante  and 


B  flfcost 
"Unusual 
Sonnet 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


tive  Soul 


Petrarch  and  Shakespeare  and  all  those  other 
ducks  put  fourteen  lines  in  every  blamed  son 
net,  for  good  measure." 

Hurt  to  the  quick,  the  sensitive  poet  walked 
away. 

"How  can  you  speak  so!"  cried  Elaine, 
angrily.  "  Is  not  Mr.  Perkins  privileged  to 
create  a  form  ?  " 

"To  create  a  form,  yes,"  returned  Dick, 
easily,  "but  not  to  monkey  with  an  old  one. 
There  's  a  difference." 

Elaine  would  have  followed  the  injured  one 
had  not  Dick  interfered.  He  caught  her  hand 
quickly,  a  new  and  unaccountable  lump  in  his 
throat  suddenly  choking  his  utterance.  "  I 
say,  Elaine,"  he  said,  huskily,  "you're  not 
thinking  of  hooking  up  with  that  red-furred 
lobster,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  responded  Elaine,  with 
icy  dignity,  "what  your  uncouth  language 
may  mean,  but  I  tolerate  no  interference  what 
ever  with  my  personal  affairs."  In  a  moment 
she  was  gone,  and  Dick  watched  the  slender, 
pink-clad  figure  returning  to  the  house  with 
ill-concealed  emotion. 

All  Summer,  so  far,  he  and  Elaine  had  been 
good  friends.  They  had  laughed  and  joked 


a  Sensitive  Soul  223 

and  worked  together  in  a  care-free,  happy-  su&&en 
go-lucky  fashion.  The  arrival  of  Mr.  Perkins 
and  his  sudden  admiration  of  Elaine  had  crys 
tallised  the  situation.  Dick  knew  now  what 
caused  the  violent  antics  of  his  heart — a  peace 
ful  and  well-behaved  organ  which  had  never 
before  been  so  disturbed  by  a  woman. 

"I  Ve  got  it,"  said  Dick,  to  himself,  deeply 
shamed.  "  Moonlight,  poetry,  mit-holding, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Never  having  had  it  be 
fore,  it 's  going  hard  with  me.  Why  in  the 
devil  was  n't  I  taught  to  write  doggerel  when 
I  was  in  college  ?  A  fellow  don't  stand  any 
show  nowadays  unless  he  's  a  pocket  edition 
of  Byron." 

He  went  on  through  the  orchard  at  a 
run,  instinctively  healing  a  troubled  mind  by 
wearying  the  body.  At  the  outer  edge  of  it, 
he  paused. 

Suspended  by  a  singularly  strong  bit  of 
twine,  a  small,  grinning  skull  hung  from  the 
lower  branch  of  an  apple  tree,  far  out  on  the 
limb.  ' '  Cat's  skull, "  thought  Dick.  ' '  Won 
der  who  hung  it  up  there  ?  " 

He  lingered,  idly,  for  a  moment  or  two, 
then  observed  that  a  small  patch  of  grass 
directly  underneath  it  was  of  that  season's 


224 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  ^acfe-o'-Xantern 


B  Scnsi= 
live  Soul 


growth.  His  curiosity  fully  awake,  he  deter 
mined  to  dig  a  bit,  though  he  had  dug  fruit 
lessly  in  many  places  since  he  came  to  the 
Jack-o'-Lantern. 

"  Uncle  could  n't  do  anything  conven 
tional,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  1  'm  pretty 
sure  he  would  n't  want  any  of  his  relations  to 
have  his  money.  Here  goes,  just  for  luck!  " 

He  went  back  to  the  barn  for  the  spade, 
which  already  had  fresh  earth  on  it  —  the 
evidence  of  an  early  morning  excavation  pri 
vately  made  by  Mrs.  Smithers  in  a  spot  where 
she  had  dreamed  gold  was  hidden.  He  went 
off  to  the  orchard  with  it,  whistling,  his  pro 
gress  being  furtively  watched  with  great  in 
terest  by  the  sour-faced  handmaiden  in  the 
kitchen. 

Back  in  the  orchard  again,  he  worked 
feverishly,  possessed  by  a  pleasant  thrill  of 
excitement,  somewhat  similar  to  that  con 
ceivably  enlivening  the  humdrum  existence 
of  Captain  Kidd.  Dick  was  far  from  sur 
prised  when  his  spade  struck  something  hard, 
and,  his  hands  trembling  with  eagerness,  he 
lifted  out  a  tin  box  of  the  kind  commonly 
used  for  private  papers. 

It  was  locked,  but  a  twist  of  his  muscular 


H  Sensitive  Soul 


hands  sufficed  to  break  it  open.  Then  he 
saw  that  it  was  a  spring  lock,  and  that,  with 
grim,  characteristic  humour,  Uncle  Ebeneezer 
had  placed  the  key  inside  the  box.  There 
were  papers  there — and  money,  the  coins 
and  bills  being  loosely  scattered  about,  and 
the  papers  firmly  sealed  in  an  envelope  ad 
dressed  "To  Whom  it  May  Concern." 

Dick  counted  the  coins  and  smoothed  out 
the  bills,  more  puzzled  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  his  life.  He  was  tempted  to  open  the  en 
velope,  but  refrained,  not  at  all  sure  that  he 
was  among  those  whom  it  concerned.  For 
the  space  of  half  an  hour  he  stood  there, 
frowning,  then  he  laughed. 

"I  '11  just  put  it  back,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"It's  not  for  me  to  monkey  with  Uncle 
Ebeneezer's  purposes." 

He  buried  the  box  in  its  old  place,  and 
even  cut  a  bit  of  sod  from  a  distant  part  of 
the  orchard  to  hide  the  traces  of  his  work. 
When  all  was  smooth  again,  he  went  back 
to  the  barn,  swinging  the  spade  carelessly 
but  no  longer  whistling. 

"  The  old  devil,"  he  muttered,  with  keen 
appreciation.  "The  wise  old  devil  !" 


226 


fl&rs. 

2>ofc5' 

fiftbfate 


XIV 

fIDrs.  Bobb's  jfiftb  jfate 

Morning  lay  fair  upon  the  land,  and  yet 
the  Lady  Elaine  was  weary.  Like  a  drooping 
lily  she  swayed  in  her  saddle,  sick  at  heart 
and  cast  down.  Earnestly  her  company  of 
gallant  knights  strove  to  cheer  her,  but  in 
-vain.  Even  the  merry  quips  of  the  fool  in 
motley,  who  still  rode  at  her  side,  brought  no 
smile  to  her  beautiful  face. 

Presently,  he  became  silent,  his  heart  deeply 
troubled  because  of  her.  An  hour  passed  so, 
and  no  -word  was  spoken,  then,  timidly  enough, 
he  -ventured  another  jest. 

The  Lady  Elaine  turned.  "  Say  no  more, 
fool, ' '  she  commanded,  "  but  get  out  thy 
writing  tablet  and  compose  me  a  poem.  I 
would  fain  hear  something  sad  and  tender  in 
place  of  this  endless  folly. ' ' 

Le  Jongleur  bowed.  "And  the  subject, 
Princess  ?  ' ' 


/IDrs.  Bo&O's  Jffftb  ffate 


227 


Elaine  laughed  bitterly.  "Myself/'  she 
cried.  "  Why  not?  Myself,  Elaine,  and  this 
foolish  quest  of  mine  !  ' ' 

Then,  for  a  space,  there  was  silence  upon 
the  road,  since  the  fool,  with  his  writing  tab 
let,  had  dropped  back  to  the  rear  of  the 
company,  and  the  gallant  knights,  perceiving 
the  mood  of  their  mistress,  spoke  not. 

At  noon,  when  the  white  sun  trembled  at 
the  ^enith,  Le  Jongleur  urged  his  donkey  for 
ward,  and  presented  to  Elaine  a  glorious  rose 
which  he  had  found  blooming  at  the  wayside. 

"  The  poem  is  finished,  your  highness,"  he 
breathed,  doffing  his  cap,  "but  'tis  all  un 
worthy,  so  I  bring  thee  this  rose  also,  that 
something  in  my  offering  may  of  a  certainty 
be  sweet. ' ' 

He  would  have  put  the  scroll  into  her  hand, 
but  she  swerved  her  palfrey  aside.  "  Read 
it,"  she  said,  impatiently  ;  " I  have  no  mind 
to  try  my  wits  with  thy  poor  scrawls. 

So,  with  his  voice  trembling,  and  over 
whelmed  with  self -consciousness,  the  fool  read 
as  follows : 

The  vineyards,  purple  with  their  bloom, 

Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 
The  maidens  in  thy  lonely  room, 


Ube  poem 


228 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


/Bra. 

Voto't 

Jf  if  tb  fate 


Thy  tapestry  on  silent  loom — 

But  hush!     Where  is  Elaine  ? 
Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 

Thy  castle  in  the  valley  lies, 

Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 
Where  swift  the  homing  swallow  flies 
And  in  the  sunset  daylight  dies — 
But  hush!     Where  is  Elaine? 

Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 

Night  comes  at  last  on  dreamy  wings, 

Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 
'Mid  gleaming  clouds  the  pale  moon  swings, 
Thy  taper  light  a  faint  star  brings, 
But  hush!     Where  is  Elaine? 

Elaine,  hast  thou  forgotten  ? 

Harlan  had  never  written  any  poetry  be 
fore,  but  it  had  always  seemed  easy.  Now, 
as  he  read  the  verses  over  again,  he  was 
tremendously  satisfied  with  his  achievement. 
Unconsciously,  he  had  modelled  it  upon  an 
exquisite  little  bit  by  some  one  else,  which 
had  once  been  reprinted  beneath  a  "story" 
of  his  own  when  he  was  on  the  paper.  He 
read  it  aloud,  to  see  how  it  sounded,  and  was 
more  pleased  than  ever  with  the  swing  of  the 
verse  and  the  music  of  the  words.  "It's 
pretty  close  to  art,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  it 
is  n't  the  real  thing." 

Just  then  the  luncheon  bell  rang,  and  he 


s.  H>o&D's  ififtb  Jfate 


229 


went  out  to  the  midday  "gab-fest,"  as 
he  inwardly  characterised  it.  The  meal  pro 
ceeded  to  dessert  without  any  unusual  dis 
turbance,  then  the  diminutive  Ebeneezer 
threw  the  remnants  of  his  cup  of  milk  into 
his  mother's  face,  and  was  carried  off, 
howling,  to  be  spanked.  Like  many  other 
mothers,  Mrs.  Holmes  resented  her  children's 
conduct  when  it  incommoded  her,  but  not 
otherwise,  and  though  milk  baths  are  said 
to  be  fine  for  the  complexion,  she  was  not 
altogether  pleased  with  the  manner  of  ap 
plication. 

Amid  the  vocal  pyrotechnics  from  the 
Holmes  apartments,  Harlan  escaped  into  the 
library,  but  his  poem  was  gone.  He  searched 
for  it  vainly,  then  sat  down  to  write  it  over 
before  he  should  forget  it.  This  done,  he 
went  on  with  Elaine  and  her  adventures,  and 
presently  forgot  all  about  the  lost  page. 

"Don't  that  do  your  heart  good?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Dodd,  of  Dorothy,  inclining  her 
head  toward  Mrs.  Holmes's  door. 

"  Be  it  ever  so  humble,"  sang  Dick,  stroll 
ing  out  of  the  room,  "there's  no  place  like 
Holmes's." 

Mrs.  Carr  admitted  that  her  ears  were  not 


flo  place 

like 
ftolmce's 


230 


Ht  tbe  Sf0n  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*%antern 


f  iftb  ffate 


yet  so  calloused  but  that  the  sound  gave  her 
distinct  pleasure. 

"  If  that  there  little  limb  of  Satan  had  have 
thro  wed  his  milk  in  anybody  else's  face," 
went  on  Mrs.  Dodd,  "all  she'd  have  said 
would  have  been:  '  Ebbie,  don't  spill  your 
nice  milk.  That 's  naughty.' ' 

Her  imitation  of  the  fond  mother's  tone  and 
manner  was  so  wickedly  exact  that  Dorothy 
laughed  heartily.  The  others  had  fled  to  a 
more  quiet  spot,  except  Willie  and  Rebecca, 
who  were  fighting  for  a  place  at  the  keyhole 
of  their  mother's  door.  Finally,  Willie  gained 
possession  of  the  keyhole,  and  the  ingenious 
Rebecca,  lying  flat  on  her  small  stomach, 
peered  under  the  door,  and  obtained  a  pleas 
ing  view  of  what  was  going  on  inside. 

"Listen  at  that!"  cried  Mrs.  Dodd,  her 
countenance  fairly  beaming  with  innocent 
pleasure.  "I'm  gettin'  most  as  much  good 
out  of  it  as  I  would  from  goin'  to  the  circus. 
Reckon  it 's  a  slipper,  for  it  sounds  just  like 
little  Jimmie  Young's  weepin'  did  the  night  I 
come  home  from  my  fifth  honeymoon. 

"That  's  the  only  time,"  she  went  on, 
reminiscently,  "as  I  was  ever  a  step-ma  to 
children  what  was  n't  growed  up.  You  'd 


.  Doom's  ffiftb  fate 


231 


think  a  woman  as  had  been  married  four 
times  afore  would  have  knowed  better  'n  to 
get  her  fool  head  into  a  noose  like  that,  but 
there  seems  to  be  only  one  way  for  folks  to 
learn  things,  an'  that 's  by  their  own  experi 
ence.  If  we  could  only  use  other  folks'  ex 
perience,  this  here  world  would  be  heaven 
in  about  three  generations,  but  we  're  so  co'n- 
stituted  that  we  never  believe  fire  '11  burn  till 
we  poke  our  own  fingers  into  it  to  see.  Other 
folks'  scars  don't  go  no  ways  at  all  toward 
convincin'  us. 

"  You  read  lots  of  novels  about  the  sorrers 
of  step-children,  but  I  ain't  never  come  up 
with  no  epic  as  yet  portrayin'  the  sufferin's  of 
a  step-ma.  If  I  had  a  talent  like  your  hus 
band  's  got,  I  '11  be  blest  if  I  would  n't  do  it. 
What  I  went  through  with  them  children 
aged  me  ten  years  in  less  'n  three. 

"  It  was  like  this,"  she  prattled  on.  "I  'd 
never  seen  a  one  of  'em,  they  livin'  far  away 
from  their  pa,  as  was  necessary  if  their  pa  was 
to  get  any  peace  an'  happiness  out  'n  life,  an' 
that  lyin'  creeter  I  married  told  me  there  was 
only  three.  My  dear,  there  was  eight,  an' 
sixteen  ordinary  young  ones  could  n't  have 
been  no  worse. 


232 


Ht  tbe  Sion  of  tbe  3acfe*or*3Lantern 


ffiftb  ff  ate 


"  Our  courtin'  was  done  mainly  in  the  ceme 
tery.  I  'd  just  laid  my  fourth  away  in  his 
proper  place  an'  had  the  letterin'  all  cut  nice 
on  his  side  of  the  monumint,  an'  I  was  doin' 
the  plantin'  on  the  grave  when  I  met  my 
fate — my  fifth  fate,  I  'm  speakin'  of  now.  I 
allers  aimed  to  do  right  by  my  husbands  when 
they  was  dead  no  less 'n  when  they  was  liv- 
in',  an'  I  allers  planted  each  one's  favourite 
flower  on  his  last  restin'-place,  an'  planted  it 
thick,  so  's  when  the  last  trump  sounded  an' 
they  all  riz  up,  there  would  n't  be  no  one  of 
'em  that  could  accuse  me  of  bein'  partial. 

"Some  of  the  flowers  was  funny  for  a 
graveyard.  One  of 'em  loved  sunflowers,  an' 
when  blossomin'-time  come,  you  could  see  a 
spot  of  light  in  my  lot  clear  from  the  gate 
when  you  went  in,  an'  on  sunny  days  even 
from  quite  a  piece  outside. 

"Geraniums  was  on  the  next  grave,  red 
an'  pink  together,  as  William  loved  to  see  'em, 
an'  most  fittin'  an'  appropriate.  He  was  a 
queer-lookin'  man,  William  was,  all  bald  ex 
cept  for  a  little  fringe  of  red  hair  around  his 
head,  an'  his  bald  spot  gettin'  as  pink  as  any- 
thin'  when  he  got  mad.  I  never  could  abide 
red  an'  pink  together,  so  I  did  my  best  not  to 


.  2>o&&'0  Jfiftb  jfate 


233 


rile  him;  but  la  sakes,  my  dear,  red-haired 
folks  is  that  touchy  that  you  never  can  tell 
what  's  goin'  to  rile  'em  an'  what  ain't. 
Some  innercent  little  remark  is  as  likely  to  set 
'em  off  as  anythin'  else.  All  the  time  it 's  like 
carryin'  a  light  into  a  fireworks  place.  Drop 
it  once  an'  the  air  '11  be  full  of  sky-rockets, 
roman  candles,  pinwheels,  an'  set  pieces  till 
you  're  that  dazed  you  don't  know  where 
you  're  livin'.  Don't  never  take  no  red-haired 
one,  my  dear,  if  you  're  anyways  set  on 
peace.  I  never  took  but  one,  but  that  was 
enough  to  set  me  dead  against  the  breed. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  a-sayin',  James  begun  to 
woo  me  in  the  cemetery.  Whenever  you  see 
a  man  in  a  cemetery,'  my  dear,  you  can  take 
it  for  granted  that  he  's  a  new-made  widower. 
After  the  first  week  or  two,  he  ain't  got  no 
time  to  go  to  no  grave,  he  's  so  busy  lookin' 
out  for  the  next  one.  When  I  see  James  a- 
waterin'  an'  a-weedin'  on  the  next  lot  to 
mine,  therefore,  I  knowed  his  sorrer  was 
new,  even  though  the  band  of  crape  on  his 
hat  was  rusty  an'  old. 

"  Bein'  fellow-mourners,  in  a  way,  we 
struck  up  kind  of  a  melancholy  friendship,  an' 
finally  got  to  borrerin'  water  from  each  other's 


Ubat 
Uoncbg 


234 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3ack=o'=Xantern 


sprinklin'  cans  an'  exchangin'  flower  seeds  an' 
jftftbffate  slips,  an'  even  hull  plants.  That  old  deceiver 
told  me  it  was  his  first  wife  that  was  a-lyin' 
there,  an'  showed  me  her  name  on  the  monu- 
mint.  She  was  buried  in  her  own  folks'  lot, 
an'  I  never  knowed  till  it  was  too  late  that  his 
own  lot  was  plum  full  of  wives,  an'  this  here 
was  a  annex,  so  to  speak.  I  dunno  how  I 
come  to  be  so  took  in,  but  anyways,  when 
James's  grief  had  subsided  somewhat,  we 
decided  to  travel  on  the  remainin'  stretch 
through  this  vale  of  tears  together. 

"He  told  me  he  had  a  beautiful  home  in 
Taylorville,  but  was  a-livin'  where  he  was 
so  's  to  be  near  the  cemetery  an'  where  he 
could  look  after  dear  Annie's  grave.  The 
sentiment  made  me  think  all  the  more  of  him, 
so  's  I  did  n't  hesitate,  an'  was  even  willin'  to 
be  married  with  one  of  my  old  rings,  to  save 
the  expense  of  a  new  one.  James  allers  was 
thrifty,  an'  the  way  he  put  it,  it  sounded  quite 
reasonable,  so  's  that  's  how  it  comes,  my 
dear,  that  in  spite  of  havin'  had  seven  hus 
bands,  1  've  only  got  six  weddin'-rings. 

"I  put  each  one  on  when  its  own  proper 
anniversary  comes  around  an'  wear  it  till  the 
next  one,  when  I  change  again,  though  for 


.  S>ofct>'8  jftftb  ffate  235 


one  of  the  rings  it  makes  only  one  day,  be-  uer 
cause  the  fourth  and  seventh  times  I  was  ^ett-m , 
married  so  near  together.  That  sounds  queer,  1Rinfl 
my  dear,  but  if  you  think  it  over,  you  'II  see 
what  I  mean.  It 's  fortunate,  too,  in  a  way, 
'cause  I  found  out  by  accident  years  after 
ward  that  my  fourth  weddin'-ring  come  out 
of  a  pawn-shop,  an'  I  never  took  much  joy 
out  of  wearin'  it.  Bein'  just  alike,  I  wore 
another  one  mostly,  even  when  Samuel  was 
alive,  but  he  never  noticed.  Besides,  I  reckon 
't  would  n't  make  no  difference,  for  a  man 
that  'II  go  to  a  pawn-shop  for  a  weddin'-ring 
ain't  one  to  make  a  row  about  his  wife's 
changin'  it.  When  I  spoke  sharp  to  him 
about  it,  he  snickered,  an'  said  it  was  appro 
priate  enough,  though  to  this  day  I  've  never 
figured  out  precisely  just  what  the  old  serpent 
meant  by  it. 

"Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  my  dear,  the  min 
ister  married  us  in  good  an'  proper  form,  an' 
I  must  say  that,  though  I  've  had  all  kinds  of 
ceremonies,  I  take  to  the  'Piscopal  one  the 
most,  in  spite  of  havin'  been  brought  up 
Methodis',  an'  hereafter  I  'II  be  married  by  it 
if  the  occasion  should  arise — an'  we  drove 
over  to  Taylorville. 


236 


at  tbe  Sian  of  tbe  3acfe=*o'*Xautern 


f  iftb  fate 


"The  roads  was  dretful,  but  bein'  experi 
enced  in  marriage,  I  could  see  that  it  was  n't 
that  that  was  makin'  James  drop  the  whip, 
an'  pull  back  on  the  lines  when  he  wanted  the 
horses  to  go  faster,  an'  not  hear  things  1  was 
a-sayin'  to  him.  Finally,  I  says,  very  distinct: 
'James,  dear,  how  many  children  did  you  say 
you  had  ?' 

"  'Eight,'  says  he,  clearin'  his  throat  proud 
and  haughty  like. 

"'You  're  lyin','  says  I,  'an'  you  know 
you  're  lyin'.  You  allers  told  me  you  had 
three.' 

"'I  was  speakin'  of  those  by  my  first 
wife,'  says  he.  'My  other  wives  all  left  one 
apiece.  Ain't  I  never  told  you  about  'em  ?  I 
thought  1  had,'  he  went  on,  speakin'  quick, 
'  but  if  I  have  n't,  it  's  because  your  beauty 
has  made  me  forget  all  the  pain  an'  sorrer  of 
the  past.' 

"With  that  he  clicked  to  the  horses  so 
sudden  that  I  was  near  threw  out  of  the  rig, 
but  it  was  n't  half  so  bad  as  the  other  jolt 
he  'd  just  give  me.  For  a  long  time  I  did  n't 
say  nothin',  an'  there  's  nothin'  that  makes  a 
man  so  uneasy  as  a  woman  that  don't  say 
nothin',  my  dear,  so  you  just  write  that  down 


's  ffiftb  fate 


237 


in  your  little  book,   an'  remember  it.     It  '11 

come  in  handy  long  before  you  're  through     «e8tt>encc 

with  your  first  marriage  an'  have  begun  on 

your  second.     Havin'  been   through   four,  I 

was  well  skilled  in  keepin'  my  mouth  shut, 

an'  I  never  said  a  word  till  we  drove  into  the 

yard  of  the  most  disconsolate-lookin'  premises 

I  ever  seen  since  I  was  took  to  the  poorhouse 

on  a  visit. 

"'James,'  says  I,  cool  but  firm,  'is  this 
your  magnificent  residence?' 

"  '  It  is,'  says  he,  very  soft,  'an'  it  is  here 
that  I  welcome  my  bride.  Have  you  ever 
seen  anythin'  like  this  view  ?  ' 

"'No,'  says  I,  'I  never  have';  an'  it  was 
gospel  truth  I  was  speakin',  too,  for  never  be 
fore  had  I  been  to  a  place  where  the  pigsty 
was  in  front. 

"  '  It  is  a  wonderful  view,'  says  I,  sarcastic 
like,  '  but  before  I  linger  to  admire  it  more,  I 
would  love  to  look  upon  the  scenery  inside 
the  house.' 

"  When  we  went  in,  I  thought  I  was  either 
dreamin'  or  had  got  to  Bedlam.  The  seven 
youngest  children  was  raisin'  particular  Cain, 
an'  the  oldest,  a  pretty  little  girl  of  thirteen, 
was  doin'  her  best  to  quiet  'em.  There  was 


238 


at  tbe  Sian  of  tbe  5acfe*o'*%antern 


ffif  tb  fate 


six  others  besides  what  had  been  accounted 
for,  but  I  soon  found  that  they  belonged  to  a 
neighbour,  an'  was  just  visitin'  to  relieve  the 
monotony. 

"The  woman  James  had  left  takin'  care  of 
'em  had  been  gone  two  weeks  an'  more,  with 
a  month's  wages  still  comin'  to  her,  which 
James  never  felt  called  on  to  pay,  on  account 
of  her  havin'  left  without  notice.  James  was 
dretful  thrifty.  The  youngest  one  was  puttin' 
the  cat  into  the  water-pitcher,  an'  as  soon  as 
I  found  out  what  his  name  was,  I  called  him 
sharp  by  it  an'  told  him  to  quit.  He  put  his 
tongue  out  at  me  as  sassy  as  you  please,  an' 
says:  'I  won't.' 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  did  n't  wait  to  hear  no 
more,  but  I  opened  my  satchel  an'  took  out 
one  of  my  slippers  an'  give  that  child  a  lickin' 
that  he  '11  remember  when  he  's  a  grand 
parent.  'Hereafter,'  says  I,  'when  I  tell  you 
to  do  anythin',  you  '11  do  it.  I  '11  speak  kind 
the  first  time  an'  firm  the  second,  and  the 
third  time  the  whole  thing  will  be  illustrated 
so  plain  that  nobody  can't  misunderstand  it. 
Your  pa  has  took  me  into  a  confidence  game,' 
says  I,  speakin'  to  all  the  children,  'but  I  was 
never  one  to  draw  back  from  what  I  'd  put 


.  2>o&fc's  jpfttb  jfate 


239 


my  hand  to,  an'  I  aim  to  do  right  by  you  if 
you  do  right  by  me.  You  mind,'  says  I, 
'  an'  you  won't  have  no  trouble;  an'  the  same 
thing,'  says  I  to  James,  '  applies  to  you.' 

"  I  felt  sorry  for  all  those  poor  little  mother 
less  things,  with  a  liar  for  a  pa,  an'  all  the 
time  I  lived  there,  I  tried  to  make  up  to  'em 
what  I  could,  but  step-mas  have  their  sor- 
rers,  my  dear,  that 's  what  they  do,  an'  I  ain't 
never  seen  no  piece  about  it  in  the  paper  yet, 
either. 

"If  you  '11  excuse  me  now,  my  dear,  I  '11 
go  to  my  room.  It 's  just  come  to  my  mind 
now  that  this  here  is  one  of  my  anniversaries, 
an'  I  '11  have  to  look  up  the  facts  in  my  family 
Bible,  an'  change  my  ring." 

At  dinner-time  the  chastised  and  chastened 
twin  appeared  in  freshly  starched  raiment. 
His  eyes  were  swollen  and  his  face  flushed,  but 
otherwise  his  recent  painful  experience  had  re 
markably  improved  him.  He  said  "  please  " 
and  "thank  you,"  and  did  not  even  resent  it 
when  Willie  slyly  dropped  a  small  piece  of 
watermelon  down  his  neck. 

"This  afternoon,"  said  Elaine,  "Mr.  Per 
kins  composed  a  beautiful  poem.  I  know  it 
is  beautiful,  though  I  have  not  yet  heard  it.  I 


tTbefr 
Sorrows 


240 


Ht  tbc  Sign  ot  tbe 


Ar*. 

£I0&6' 

fifth  fate 


do  not  wish  to  be  selfish  in  my  pleasure,  so  I 
will  ask  him  to  read  it  to  us  all." 

The  poet's  face  suddenly  became  the  colour 
of  his  hair.  He  dropped  his  napkin,  and 
swiftly  whispered  to  Elaine,  while  he  was 
picking  it  up,  that  she  herself  was  the  subject 
of  the  poem. 

"How  perfectly  charming,"  said  Elaine, 
clearly.  "Did  you  hear,  Mrs.  Carr?  Poor 
little,  insignificant  me  has  actually  inspired  a 
great  poem.  Oh,  do  read  it,  Mr.  Perkins  ? 
We  are  all  dying  to  hear  it!  " 

Fairly  cornered,  the  poet  muttered  that  he 
had  lost  it — some  other  time — wait  until  to 
morrow — and  so  on. 

"  No  need  to  wait,"  said  Dick,  with  an  ironi 
cal  smile.  "It  was  lost,  but  now  is  found. 
I  came  upon  it  myself,  blowing  around  un 
heeded  under  the  library  window,  quite  like  a 
common  bit  of  paper." 

Mr.  Perkins  was  transfixed  with  amaze 
ment,  for  his  cherished  poem  was  at  that 
minute  in  his  breast  pocket.  He  clutched  at 
it  spasmodically,  to  be  sure  it  was  still  safe. 

Very  different  emotions  possessed  Harlan, 
who  choked  on  his  food.  He  instinctively 
guessed  the  worst,  and  saw  his  home  in  lurid 


/IDrs.  2>ofc&'s  ffiftb  ffate 


241 


ruin  about  him,  but  was  powerless  to  avert 
the  catastrophe. 

"Read  it,  Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  kindly. 
"We  are  all  a-perishin'  to  hear  it.  I  can't 
eat  another  bite  until  I  do.  I  reckon  it  '11 
sound  like  a  valentine,"  she  concluded,  with  a 
malicious  glance  at  Mr.  Perkins. 

"I  have  taken  the  liberty,"  chuckled  Dick, 
"  of  changing  a  word  or  two  occasionally,  to 
make  better  sense  of  it,  and  of  leaving  out 
some  lines  altogether.  Every  one  is  privi 
leged  to  vary  an  established  form."  Without 
further  preliminary,  he  read  the  improved 
version. 

"  The  little  doggie  sheds  his  coat, 

Elaine,  have  you  forgotten  ? 

What  is  it  goes  around  a  button  ? 
I  thought  you  knew  that  simple  thing, 
But  ideas  in  your  head  take  wing. 

Elaine,  have  you  forgotten  ? 
The  answer  is  a  goat. 

"  How  much  is  three  times  humpty-steen  ? 

Elaine,  have  you  forgotten  ? 
Why  does  a  chicken  cross  the  road? 
Who  carries  home  a  topers  load? 
You  are  so  very  stupid,  dear! 
Elaine,  have  you  forgotten  ? 

"  You  think  a  mop  of  scarlet  hair 
And  pale  green  eyes " 


H 

Valentine 


242 


Ht  tbe  SiQn  of  tbe 


ffltrs. 

Doffc'a 

ffiftb  fate 


"That  will  do,"  said  Miss  St.  Glair,  crisply. 
"  Mr.  Perkins,  may  I  ask  as  a  favour  that  you 
will  not  speak  to  me  again?"  She  marched 
out  with  her  head  high,  and  Mr.  Perkins, 
wholly  unstrung,  buried  his  face  in  his  napkin. 

Harlan  laughed — a  loud,  ringing  laugh,  such 
as  Dorothy  had  not  heard  from  him  for 
months,  and  striding  around  the  table,  he 
grasped  Dick's  hand  in  tremendous  relief. 

"  Let  me  have  it,"  he  cried,  eagerly.  "Give 
me  all  of  it!  " 

"Sure,"  said  Dick,  readily,  passing  over 
both  sheets  of  paper. 

Harlan  went  into  the  library  with  the  com 
position,  and  presently,  when  Dick  was  walk 
ing  around  the  house  and  saw  bits  of  torn 
paper  fluttering  out  of  the  open  window,  a 
light  broke  through  his  usual  density. 

"Whew!"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll  be 
darned!  I '11  be  everlastingly  darned!  Idiot!" 
he  continued,  savagely.  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
kick  myself!  Poor  Dorothy!  I  wonder  if 
she  knows  1" 


243 


XV 


THE  August  moon  swung  high  in  the  intbe 
heavens,  and  the  crickets  chirped  un 
bearably.  The  luminous  dew  lay  heavily 
upon  the  surrounding  fields,  and  now  and 
then  a  stray  breeze,  amid  the  overhanging 
branches  of  the  trees  that  lined  the  roadway, 
aroused  in  the  consciousness  of  the  single 
wayfarer  a  feeling  closely  akin  to  panic.  When 
he  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  he  was 
trembling  violently. 

In  the  dooryard  of  the  Jack-o'-Lantern,  he 
paused.  It  was  dark,  save  for  a  single  round 
window.  In  an  upper  front  room  a  night- 
lamp,  turned  low,  gave  one  leering  eye  to  the 
grotesque  exterior  of  the  house. 

With  his  heart  thumping  loudly,  Mr.  Brad 
ford  leaned  against  a  tree  and  divested  himself 
of  his  shoes.  From  a  package  under  his  arm, 
he  took  out  a  pair  of  soft  felt  slippers,  the 


244 


Ht  tbe  Sf0n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


•(Treasure. 
Trove 


paper  rattling  loudly  as  he  did  so.  He  put 
them  on,  hesitated,  then  wen*  cautiously  up 
the  walk. 

"  In  all  my  seventy-eight  years,"  he  thought, 
"I  have  never  done  anything  like  this.  If  I 
had  not  promised  the  Colonel — but  a  promise 
to  a  dying  man  is  sacred,  especially  when  he 
is  one's  best  friend." 

The  sound  of  the  key  in  the  lock  seemed 
almost  like  an  explosion  of  dynamite.  Mr. 
Bradford  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  his 
forehead,  turned  the  door  slowly  upon  its 
squeaky  hinges,  and  went  in,  feeling  like  a 
burglar. 

"  I  am  not  a  burglar,"  he  thought,  his  hands 
shaking.  "  I  have  come  to  give,  not  to  take 
away." 

Fearfully,  he  tiptoed  into  the  parlour,  ex 
pecting  at  any  moment  to  arouse  the  house. 
Feeling  his  way  carefully  along  the  wall,  and 
guided  by  the  moonlight  which  streamed  in 
at  the  side  windows,  he  came  to  the  wing 
occupied  by  Mrs.  Holmes  and  her  exuberant 
offspring.  Here  he  stooped,  awkwardly,  and 
slipped  a  sealed  and  addressed  letter  under 
the  door,  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  got 
away  without  having  wakened  any  one. 


Ureasure-'Grove 


The  sounds  which  came  from  Mrs.  Dodd's 
room  were  reassuringly  suggestive  of  sleep. 
Hastily,  he  slipped  another  letter  under  her 
door,  then  made  his  way  cautiously  to  the 
kitchen.  The  missive  intended  for  Mrs. 
Smithers  was  left  on  the  door-mat  out 
side,  for,  as  Mr.  Bradford  well  knew,  the 
ears  of  the  handmaiden  were  uncomfortably 
keen. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  hesitated  again, 
but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  top,  his  heart 
had  ceased  to  beat  audibly.  He  tiptoed  down 
the  corridor  to  Uncle  Israel's  room,  then,  fur 
ther  on,  to  Dick's.  The  letter  intended  for 
Mr.  Perkins  was  slipped  under  Elaine's  door, 
Mr.  Bradford  not  being  aware  that  the  poet 
had  changed  his  room.  Having  safely  accom 
plished  his  last  errand,  the  tension  relaxed, 
and  he  went  downstairs  with  more  assurance, 
his  pace  being  unduly  hastened  by  a  subdued 
howl  from  one  of  the  twins. 

Bidding  himself  be  calm,  he  got  to  the  front 
door,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  he 
closed  it  noiselessly.  There  was  a  light  in 
Mrs.  Holmes's  room  now,  and  Mr.  Bradford 
did  not  wish  to  linger.  He  gathered  up  his 
shoes  and  fairly  ran  downhill,  arriving  at  his 


246 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  $acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ureasure* 

ttrove 


office  much  shaken  in  mind  and  body,  nearly 
two  hours  after  he  had  started. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  why 
the  Colonel  should  have  been  so  particular  as 
to  dates  and  hours,  but  he  knew  his  own  busi 
ness  best."  Then,  further  in  accordance  with 
his  instructions,  he  burned  a  number  of  letters 
which  could  not  be  delivered  personally. 

If  Mr.  Bradford  could  have  seen  the  com 
pany  which  met  at  the  breakfast  table  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  he  would  have  been  amply 
repaid  for  his  supreme  effort  of  the  night  before, 
had  he  been  blessed  with  any  sense  of  humour 
at  all.  The  Carrs  were  untroubled,  and  Elaine 
appeared  as  usual,  except  for  her  haughty  in 
difference  to  Mr.  Perkins.  She  thought  he 
had  written  a  letter  to  himself  and  slipped  it 
under  her  door,  in  order  to  compel  her  to 
speak  to  him,  but  she  had  tactfully  avoided 
that  difficulty  by  leaving  it  on  his  own  thresh 
old.  Dick's  eyes  were  dancing  and  at  inter 
vals  his  mirth  bubbled  over,  needlessly,  as 
every  one  else  appeared  to  think. 

"I  does  n't  know  wot  folks  finds  to  laugh 
at,"  remarked  Mrs.  Smithers,  as  she  brought 
in  the  coffee;  "that  's  wot  I  does  n't.  It  's  a 
solemn  time,  I  take  it,  when  the  sheeted  spec- 


tres  of  the  dead  walks  abroad  by  night,  that 's 
wot  it  is.  It  's  time  for  folks  to  be  thinkin' 
about  their  immortal  souls." 

This  enigmatical  utterance  produced  a  start 
ling  effect.  Mr.  Perkins  turned  a  pale  green 
and  hastily  excused  himself,  his  breakfast 
wholly  untouched.  Mrs.  Holmes  dropped 
her  fork  and  recovered  it  in  evident  confusion. 
Mrs.  Dodd's  face  was  a  bright  scarlet  and  ap 
peared  about  to  burst,  but  she  kept  her  lips 
compressed  into  a  thin,  tight  line.  Uncle  Is 
rael  nodded  over  his  predigested  food.  "Just 
so,"  he  mumbled;  "a  solemn  time." 

Eagerly  watching  for  an  opportunity,  Mrs. 
Holmes  dived  into  the  barn,  and  emerged, 
cautiously,  with  the  spade  concealed  under 
her  skirts.  She  carried  it  into  her  own  apart 
ment  and  hid  it  under  Willie's  bed.  Mrs. 
Smithers  went  to  look  for  it  a  little  later,  and, 
discovering  that  it  was  unaccountably  missing, 
excavated  her  own  private  spade  from  beneath 
the  hay.  During  the  afternoon,  the  poet  was 
observed  lashing  the  fire-shovel  to  the  other 
end  of  a  decrepit  rake.  Uncle  Israel,  after  a 
fruitless  search  of  the  premises,  actually  went 
to  town  and  came  back  with  a  bulky  and  awk 
ward  parcel,  which  he  hid  in  the  shrubbery. 


248 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Ureaaure= 

Urove 


Meanwhile,  Willie  had  gone  whimpering 
to  Mrs.  Dodd,  who  was  in  serious  trouble  of 
her  own.  "I'm  afraid,"  he  admitted,  when 
closely  questioned. 

"Afraid  of  what?"  demanded  his  counsel 
lor,  sharply. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  ma,"  sobbed  Willie.  "  She  's 
a-goin'  to  bury  me.  She  's  got  the  spade  hid 
under  my  bed  now." 

Sudden  emotion  completely  changed  Mrs. 
Dodd's  countenance.  "There,  there,  Willie," 
she  said,  stroking  him  kindly.  "Where  is 
your  ma  ?  " 

"  She  's  out  in  the  orchard  with  Ebbie  and 
Rebbie." 

"Well  now,  deary,  don't  you  say  nothin' 
at  all  to  your  ma,  an'  we  '11  fool  her.  The 
idea  of  buryin'  a  nice  little  boy  like  you !  You 
just  go  an'  get  me  that  spade  an'  I  '11  hide  it 
in  my  room.  Then,  when  your  ma  asks  for 
it,  you  don't  know  nothin'  about  it.  See  ?  " 

Willie's  troubled  face  brightened,  and  pre 
sently  the  implement  was  under  Mrs.  Dodd's 
own  bed,  and  her  door  locked.  Much  relieved 
in  his  mind  and  cherishing  kindly  sentiments 
toward  his  benefactor,  Willie  slid  down  the 
banisters,  unrebuked,  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 


TTreasure^rove 


249 


Meanwhile  Mrs.  Dodd  sat  on  the  porch  and 
meditated.  "I'd  never  have  thought,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  that  Ebeneezer  would  intend 
that  Holmes  woman  to  have  any  of  it,  but 
you  never  can  tell  what  folks  '11  do  when  their 
minds  gets  to  failin'  at  the  end.  Ebeneezer's 
mind  must  have  failed  dretful,  for  1  know  he 
did  n't  make  no  promise  to  her,  same  as  he 
did  to  me,  an'  if  she  don't  suspect  nothin', 
what  did  she  go  an'  get  the  spade  for  ?  Dret 
ful  likely  hand  it  is,  for  spirit  writin'." 

Looking  about  furtively  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  not  observed,  Mrs.  Dodd  drew  out 
of  the  mysterious  recesses  of  her  garments, 
the  crumpled  communication  of  the  night  be 
fore.  It  was  dated,  "Heaven,  August  i2th," 
and  the  penmanship  was  Uncle  Ebeneezer's 
to  the  life. 

"Dear  Belinda,"  it  read.  "I  find  myself 
at  the  last  moment  obliged  to  change  my 
plans.  If  you  will  go  to  the  orchard  at  ex 
actly  twelve  o'clock  on  the  night  of  August 
i  3th,  you  will  find  there  what  you  seek.  Go 
straight  ahead  to  the  ninth  row  of  apple  trees, 
then  seven  trees  to  the  left.  A  cat's  skull 
hangs  from  the  lower  branch,  if  it  has  n't 
blown  down  or  been  taken  away.  Dig  here 


Spirit 
TOriting 


250 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfeo'=*Xantern 


Ureaaurea 
Urove 


and  you  will  find  a  tin  box  containing  what  I 
have  always  meant  you  to  have. 

"I  charge  you  by  all  you  hold  sacred  to 
obey  these  directions  in  every  particular,  and 
unless  you  want  to  lose  it  all,  to  say  nothing 
about  it  to  any  one  who  may  be  in  the  house. 

"I  am  sorry  to  put  you  to  this  incon 
venience,  but  the  limitations  of  the  spirit 
world  cannot  well  be  explained  to  mortals.  I 
hope  you  will  make  a  wise  use  of  the  money 
and  not  spend  it  all  on  clothes,  as  women  are 
apt  to  do. 

"In  conclusion,  let  me  say  that  I  am  very 
happy  in  heaven,  though  it  is  considerably 
more  quiet  than  any  place  I  ever  lived  in  be 
fore.  I  have  met  a  great  many  friends  here, 
but  no  relatives  except  my  wife.  Farewell, 
as  I  shall  probably  never  see  you  again. 
"  Yours, 

"  EBENEEZER  JUDSON. 

"P.S.  All  of  your  previous  husbands  are 
here,  in  the  sunny  section  set  aside  for  mar 
tyrs.  None  of  them  give  you  a  good  repu 
tation.  »R  J." 

"Don't  it  beat  all,"  muttered  Mrs.  Dodd  to 
herself,  excitedly.  "Here  was  Ebeneezer  at 


ftreasure^ZTrove 


my  door  last  night,  an'  I  never  knowed  it. 
Sakes  alive,  if  I  had  knowed  it,  I  would  n't 
have  slep'  like  I  did.  Here  comes  that  Holmes 
hussy.  Wonder  what  she  knows!  " 

"Do  you  believe  in  spirits,  Mrs.  Dodd  ?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Holmes,  in  a  careless  tone  that 
did  not  deceive  her  listener. 

"Depends,"  returned  the  other,  with  an 
evident  distaste  for  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  believe  spirits  can  walk  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  never  seen  no  spirits  walk,  but  I  've 
seen  folks  try  to  walk  that  was  full  of  spirits, 
and  there  wa'n't  no  visible  improvement  in 
their  steppin'."  This  was  a  pleasant  allusion 
to  the  departed  Mr.  Holmes,  who  was  cur 
rently  said  to  have  "  drunk  hisself  to  death." 

A  scarlet  flush,  which  mounted  to  the  roots 
of  Mrs.  Holmes's  hair,  indicated  that  the  shot 
had  told,  and  Mrs.  Dodd  went  to  her  own 
room,  where  she  carefully  locked  herself  in. 
She  was  determined  to  sit  upon  her  precious 
spade  until  midnight,  if  it  were  necessary,  to 
keep  it. 

Mrs.  Smithers  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with 
the  cold  perspiration  oozing  from  every  pore, 
when  the  kitchen  clock  struck  twelve  sharp, 
quick  strokes.  The  other  clocks  in  the  house 


252 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*xantern 


'Cieasures 
Urove 


took  up  the  echo  and  made  merry  with  it. 
The  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  was  the 
last  to  strike,  and  the  twelve  deep-toned  notes 
boomed  a  solemn  warning  which,  to  more 
than  one  quaking  listener,  bore  a  strong  sug 
gestion  of  another  world — an  uncanny  world 
at  that. 

"Guess  I'll  go  along,"  said  Dick  to  him 
self,  yawning  and  stretching.  "I  might  just 
as  well  see  the  fun." 

Mrs.  Smithers,  with  her  private  spade  and 
her  odorous  lantern,  was  at  the  spot  first, 
closely  seconded  by  Mrs.  Dodd,  in  a  volu 
minous  garment  of  red  flannel  which  had 
seen  all  of  its  best  days  and  not  a  few  of  its 
worst.  Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  came 
Mrs.  Holmes,  carrying  a  pair  of  shears,  which 
she  had  snatched  up  at  the  last  moment  when 
she  discovered  the  spade  was  missing.  Mr. 
Perkins,  fully  garbed,  appeared  with  his  im 
provised  shovel.  Uncle  Israel,  in  his  piebald 
dressing-gown,  tottered  along  in  the  rear, 
bearing  his  spade,  still  unwrapped,  his  bed 
room  candle,  and  a  box  of  matches.  Dick 
surveyed  the  scene  from  a  safe,  shadowy 
distance,  and  on  a  branch  near  the  skull, 
Claudius  Tiberius  was  stretched  at  full  length, 


purring  with  a  loud,  resonant  purr  which 
could  be  heard  from  afar. 

After  the  first  shock  of  surprise,  which  was 
especially  keen  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Dodd, 
when  she  saw  Uncle  Israel  in  the  company, 
Mrs.  Smithers  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  's  nothink  more  nor  a  wild-goose 
chase,"  she  said,  resentfully.  "  A-gettin'  us 
all  out'n  our  beds  at  this  time  o'  night!  It's 
a  sufferin'  and  dyin'  shame,  that 's  wot  it  is, 
and  if  sperrits  was  like  other  folks,  't  would  n't 
'ave  happened." 

"Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  firmly,  "keep 
your  mouth  shut.  Israel,  will  you  dig?" 

"We'll  all  dig,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes,  in  the 
voice  of  authority,  and  thereafter  the  dirt  flew 
briskly  enough,  accompanied  by  the  laboured 
breathing  of  perspiring  humanity. 

It  was  Uncle  Israel's  spade  that  first  touched 
the  box,  and,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  he  stooped 
for  it,  as  did  everybody  else.  By  sheer  force 
of  muscle,  Mrs.  Dodd  got  it  away  from  him. 

"This  wrangle,"  sighed  Mr.  Perkins,  "is 
both  unseemly  and  sordid.  Let  us  all  agree 
to  abide  by  dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  last  be 
quests." 

"  There  won't  be  no  desire  not  to  abide  by 


254 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


^Treasures 
Urove 


'em,"  snorted  Mrs.  Smithers,  "  wot  with  cats 
as  can't  stay  buried  and  sheeted  spectres  of 
the  dead  a-walkin'  through  the  house  by 
night! " 

By  this  time,  Mrs.  Dodd  had  the  box  open, 
and  a  cry  of  astonishment  broke  from  her 
lips.  Several  heads  were  badly  bumped  in 
the  effort  to  peep  into  the  box,  and  an  unpro 
tected  sneeze  from  Uncle  Israel  added  to  the 
general. unpleasantness. 

"You  can  all  go  away,"  cried  Mrs.  Dodd, 
shrilly.  "  There  's  two  one-dollar  bills  here, 
two  quarters,  an'  two  nickels  an'  eight  pen 
nies.  'T  aint  nothin'  to  be  fit  over." 

"But  the  letter,"  suggested  Mr.  Perkins, 
hopefully.  "Is  there  not  a  letter  from  dear 
Uncle  Ebeneezer?  Let  us  gather  around  the 
box  in  a  reverent  spirit  and  listen  to  dear 
Uncle  Ebeneezer's  last  words." 

"  You  can  read  'em,"  snapped  Mrs.  Holmes, 
"  if  you  're  set  on  hearing." 

Uncle  Israel  wheezed  so  loudly  that  for  the 
moment  he  drowned  the  deep  purr  of  Clau 
dius  Tiberius.  When  quiet  was  restored,  Mr. 
Perkins  broke  the  seal  of  the  envelope  and 
unfolded  the  communication  within.  Uncle 
Israel  held  the  dripping  candle  on  one  side 


Ureasure^Urove 


255 


and  Mrs.  Smithers  the  smoking  lantern  on  the 
other,  while  near  by,  Dick  watched  the  mid 
night  assembly  with  an  unholy  glee  which, 
in  spite  of  his  efforts,  nearly  became  audible. 

"How  beautiful,"  said  Mr.  Perkins,  "to 
think  that  dear  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  last  words 
should  be  given  to  us  in  this  unexpected  but 
original  way." 

"Shut  up,"  said  Mrs.  Smithers,  emphati 
cally,  "and  read  them  last  words.  I  'm 
gettin'  the  pneumony  now,  that 's  wot  I 
am." 

"  You  're  the  only  one,"  chirped  Mrs.  Dodd, 
hysterically.  "The  money  in  this  here  box 
is  all  old."  It  was,  indeed.  Mr.  Judson 
seemed  to  have  purposely  chosen  ragged  bills 
and  coins  worn  smooth. 

"'Dear  Relations,'"  began  Mr.  Perkins. 
"  'As  every  one  of  you  have  at  one  time  or 
another  routed  me  out  of  bed  to  let  you  in 
when  you  have  come  to  my  house  on  the 
night  train,  and  always  uninvited— 

"I  never  did,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Holmes. 
"I  always  came  in  the  daytime." 

"Nobody  ain't  come  at  night,"  explained 
Mrs.  Smithers,  "since  'e  fixed  the  'ouse  over 
into  a  face.  One  female  fainted  dead  away 


fble  last 

"CQor&s 


256 


Ht  tbe  Sion  of  tbe  5acft*o'*Xantern 


when  'er  started  up  the  hill  and  see  it  a-winkin' 
at  'er,  yes  sir,  that 's  wot  'er  did!  " 

"  'It  seems  only  fitting  and  appropriate,'" 
continued  Mr.  Perkins,  "  'that  you  should  all 
see  how  it  seems.''  The  poet  wiped  his 
massive  brow  with  his  soiled  handkerchief. 
"  Dear  uncle!  "  he  commented. 

"Yes,"  wheezed  Uncle  Israel,"  'dear  uncle!' 
Damn  his  stingy  old  soul,"  he  added,  with 
uncalled-for  emphasis. 

"It  gives  me  pleasure  to  explain  in  this 
fashion  my  disposal  of  my  estate,"  the  reader 
went  on,  huskily. 

"Of  all  the  connection  on  both  sides,  there 
is  only  one  that  has  never  been  to  see  me, 
unless  I  've  forgotten  some,  and  that  is  my 
beloved  nephew,  James  Harlan  Carr." 

"Him,"  creaked  Uncle  Israel.  "Him,  as 
never  see  Ebeneezer." 

"He  has  never,"  continued  the  poet,  with 
difficulty,  "rung  my  door  bell  at  night,  nor 
eaten  me  out  of  house  and  home,  nor  written 
begging  letters —  "  this  phrase  was  well-nigh 
inaudible — "nor  had  fits  on  me " 

Here  there  was  a  pause  and  all  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  Uncle  Israel. 

"T  wa'n't  a  fit!"  he  screamed.     "It  was 


Ureasure^Trove 


257 


a  involuntary  spasm  brought  on  by  takin' 
two  searchin'  medicines  too  near  together. 
'T  wa'n't  a  fit!  " 

"Nor  children " 

' '  The  idea !  "  snapped  Mrs.  Holmes.  ' '  Poor 
little  Ebbie  and  Rebbie  had  to  be  born  some 
where." 

"Nor  paralysis " 

"That  was  Cousin  Si  Martin,"  said  Mrs. 
Dodd,  half  to  herself.  "He  was  took  bad 
with  it  in  the  night." 

"He  has  never  come  to  spend  Christmas 
with  me  and  remained  until  the  ensuing  dog 
days,  nor  sent  me  a  crayon  portrait  of  him 
self" — Mr.  Perkins  faltered  here,  but  nobly 
went  on — "nor  had  typhoid  fever,  nor  fin 
ished  up  his  tuberculosis,  nor  cut  teeth,  nor 
set  the  house  on  fire  with  a  bath  cabinet " 

At  this  juncture  Uncle  Israel  was  so  over 
come  with  violent  emotion  that  it  was  some 
time  before  the  reading  could  proceed. 

"Never  having  come  into  any  kind  of  rela 
tions  with  my  dear  nephew,  James  Harlan 
Carr,"  continued  Mr.  Perkins,  in  troubled 
tones,  "I  have  shown  my  gratitude  in  this 
humble  way.  To  him  I  give  the  house  and 
all  my  furniture,  my  books  and  personal  effects 


Die 
Oratttu&c 


258         Ht  tbe  Sian  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 

of  every  kind,  my  farm  in  Hill  County,  two 
thousand  acres,  all  improved  and  clear  of  in- 
cumbrance,  except  blooded  stock, " 

"I  never  knowed  'e  'ad  no  farm,"  inter 
rupted  Mrs.  Smithers. 

"And  the  ten  thousand  and  eighty-four 
dollars  in  the  City  Bank  which  at  this  writing 
is  there  to  my  credit,  but  will  be  duly  trans 
ferred,  and  my  dear  Rebecca's  diamond  pin  to 
be  given  to  my  beloved  nephew's  wife  when 
he  marries.  It  is  all  in  my  will,  which  my 
dear  friend  Jeremiah  Bradford  has,  and  which 
he  will  read  at  the  proper  time  to  those 
concerned." 

"The  old  snake!  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Holmes. 

"Further,"  went  on  the  poet,  almost  past 
speech  by  this  time,  "I  direct  that  the  re 
mainder  of  my  estate,  which  is  here  in  this 
box,  shall  be  divided  as  follows: 

"Eight  cents  each  to  that  loafer,  Si  Martin, 
his  lazy  wife,  and  their  eight  badly  brought- 
up  children,  with  instructions  to  be  generous 
to  any  additions  to  said  children  through  mat 
rimony  or  natural  causes;  Fanny  Wood  and 
that  poor,  white-livered  creature  she  married, 
thereby  proving  her  own  idiocy  if  it  needed 
proof;  Uncle  James's  cross-eyed  third  wife 


259 


and  her  two  silly  daughters;  Rebecca's  sis 
ter's  scoundrelly  second  husband,  with  his 
foolish  wife  and  their  little  boy  with  a  face 
like  a  pug  dog;  Uncle  Jason,  who  has  needed 
a  bath  ever  since  I  knew  him  —  I  want  he 
should  spend  his  legacy  for  soap — and  his  epi 
leptic  stepson,  whose  name  I  forget,  though 
he  lived  with  me  five  years  hand-running; 
lying  Sally  Simmons  and  her  half-witted 
daughter;  that  old  hen,  Belinda  Dodd;  that 
skunk,  Harold  Vernon  Perkins,  who  never 
did  a  stroke  of  honest  work  in  his  life  till  he 
began  to  dig  for  this  box ;  monkey-faced  Lu- 
cretia  and  the  four  thieving  little  Riley  children, 
who  are  likely  to  get  into  prison  when  they 
grow  up;  that  human  undertaker's  waggon, 
Betsey  Skiles,  and  her  two  impudent  nieces; 
that  grand  old  perambulating  drug  store,  Is 
rael  Skiles;  that  Holmes  fool  with  the  three 
reprints  of  her  ugliness — eight  cents  apiece, 
and  may  you  get  all  possible  good  out  of  it. 

"Dick  Chester,  however,  having  always 
paid  his  board,  and  tried  to  be  a  help  to  me  in 
several  small  ways,  and  in  spite  of  having 
lived  with  me  eight  Summers  or  more  with 
out  having  been  asked  to  do  so,  gets  two 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  which 


Jk  quests 


260 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


TIrea0urc« 
Urove 


is  deposited  for  him  in  the  savings  department 
of  the  Metropolitan  Bank,  plus  the  three  hun 
dred  and  seventy  dollars  he  paid  me  for  board 
without  my  asking  him  for  it.  Sarah  Smith- 
ers,  being  in  the  main  a  good  woman,  though 
sharp-tongued  at  times,  and  having  been  faith 
ful  all  the  time  my  house  has  been  full  of  low- 
down  cusses  too  lazy  to  work  for  their  living, 
gets  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  which  is 
in  the  same  bank  as  Dick's.  The  rest  of  you 
take  your  eight  cents  apiece  and  be  damned. 
You  can  get  the  money  changed  at  the  store. 
If  any  have  been  left  out,  it  is  my  desire  that 
those  remembered  should  divide  with  the 
unfortunate. 

"If  you  had  not  all  claimed  to  be  Rebecca's 
relatives,  you  would  have  been  kicked  out  of 
my  house  years  ago,  but  since  writing  this,  I 
have  seen  Rebecca  and  made  it  right  with 
her.  It  was  not  her  desire  that  I  should  be 
imposed  upon. 

"Get  out  of  my  house,  every  one  of  you, 
before  noon  to-morrow,  and  the  devil  has  my 
sincere  sympathy  when  you  go  to  live  with 
him  and  make  hell  what  you  have  made  my 
house  ever  since  Rebecca's  death.  GET  OUT ! ! ! 
"EBENEEZER  JUDSON." 


The  letter  was  badly  written  and  inco 
herent,  yet  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  its 
meaning,  nor  of  the  state  of  mind  in  which 
it  had  been  penned.  For  a  moment,  there 
was  a  tense  silence,  then  Mrs.  Dodd  tittered 
hysterically. 

"We  thought  diamonds  was  goin'  to  be 
trumps,"  she  observed,  "an'  it  turned  out  to 
be  spades." 

Uncle  Israel  wheezed  again  and  Mrs.  Smith- 
ers  smacked  her  lips  with  intense  satisfaction. 
Mrs.  Holmes  was  pale  with  anger,  and,  under 
cover  of  the  night,  Dick  sneaked  back  to  his 
room,  shame-faced,  yet  happy.  Claudius 
Tiberius  still  purred,  sticking  his  claws  into 
the  bark  with  every  evidence  of  pleasure. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Perkins,  sadly, 
running  his  fingers  through  his  mane, 
"whether  we  are  obliged  to  take  as  final 
these  vagaries  of  a  dying  man.  Dear  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  could  not  have  been  sane  when  he 
penned  this  cruel  letter.  I  do  not  believe  it 
was  his  desire  to  have  any  of  us  go  away  before 
the  usual  time."  Under  cover  of  these  for 
giving  sentiments,  he  pocketed  all  the  money 
in  the  box. 

"  Me  neither,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd.     "Anyhow, 


262 


Ht  tbe  Sion  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


I  'm  goin'  to  stay.  No  sheeted  spectre  can't 
scare  me  away  from  a  place  I  've  always  stayed 
in  Summers,  'specially,"  she  added,  sarcastic 
ally,  "when  I  'm  remembered  in  the  will." 

Mrs.  Smithers  clucked  disagreeably  and  went 
back  to  the  house.  Uncle  Israel  looked  after 
her  with  dismay.  "Do  you  suppose,"  he 
queried,  in  falsetto,  "that  she  'II  tell  the 
Carrs?" 

"Hush,  Israel,"  replied  Mrs.  Dodd.  "She 
can't  tell  them  Carrs  about  our  diggin'  all  night 
in  the  orchard,  'cause  she  was  here  herself. 
They  did  n't  get  no  spirit  communication 
an'  they  won't  suspect  nothin'.  We  '11  just 
stay  where  we  be  an'  go  on  's  if  nothin'  had 
happened." 

Indeed,  this  seemed  the  wisest  plan,  and, 
shivering  with  the  cold,  the  baffled  ones  filed 
back  to  the  Jack-o'-Lantern.  "  How  did  you 
get  out,  Israel  ? "  whispered  Mrs.  Dodd,  as 
they  approached  the  house. 

The  old  man  snickered.  It  was  the  only 
moment  of  the  evening  he  had  thoroughly  en 
joyed.  "The  same  spirit  that  give  me  the 
letter,  Belinda,"  he  returned,  pleasantly,  "also 
give  me  a  key.  You  did  n't  think  I  had  no 
flyin'  machine,  did  you  ?  " 


263 


"  Humph!  "  grunted  Mrs.  Dodd.  "Spirits 
don't  carry  no  keys!  " 

At  the  threshold  they  paused,  the  sensitive 
poet  quite  unstrung  by  the  night's  adventure. 
From  the  depths  of  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  came 
a  shrill,  infantile  cry. 

"Is  that  Ebbie,"  asked  Mrs.  Dodd,  "or 
Rebbie  ?  " 

Mrs.  Holmes  turned  upon  her  with  sup 
pressed  fury.  "  Don't  you  ever  dare  to  allude 
to  my  children  in  that  manner  again,"  she 
commanded,  hoarsely. 

"What  is  their  names?"  quavered  Uncle 
Israel,  lighting  his  candle. 

"Their  names,  "returned  Mrs.  Holmes,  with 
a  vast  accession  of  dignity,  "are  Gladys  Gwen 
dolen  and  Algernon  Paul!  Good  night!  " 

Just  before  dawn,  a  sheeted  spectre  ap 
peared  at  the  side  of  Sarah  Smither's  bed,  and 
swore  the  trembling  woman  to  secrecy.  It 
was  long  past  sunrise  before  the  frightened 
handmaiden  came  to  her  senses  enough  to  re 
call  that  the  voice  of  the  apparition  had  been 
strangely  like  Mrs.  Dodd's. 


H  Sbeeteb 
Spectre 


264 


XVI 

jfortune 

THE  next  morning,  Harlan  and  Dorothy  ate 
breakfast  by  themselves.  There  was 
suppressed  excitement  in  the  manner  of  Mrs. 
Smithers,  who  by  this  time  had  quite  recov 
ered  from  her  fright,  and,  as  they  readily  saw, 
not  wholly  of  an  unpleasant  kind.  From  time 
to  time  she  tittered  audibly — a  thing  which 
had  never  happened  before. 

"  It 's  just  as  if  a  tombstone  should  giggle," 
remarked  Harlan.  His  tone  was  low,  but 
unfortunately,  it  carried  well. 

"Tombstone  or  not,  just  as  you  like,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Smithers,  as  she  came  in  with 
the  bacon.  "I  'd  be  careful  'ow  I  spoke  dis 
respectfully  of  tombstones  if  I  was  in  your 
places,  that 's  wot  I  would.  Tombstones  is 
kind  to  some  and  cussed  to  others,  that 's  wot 
they  are,  and  if  you  don't  like  the  monument 
wot 's  at  present  in  your  kitchen,  you  know 
wot  you  can  do." 


(BooD  fortune 


After  breakfast,  she  beckoned  Dorothy  into 
the  kitchen,  and  "gave  notice." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Smithers,"  cried  Dorothy,  al 
most  moved  to  tears,  "please  don't  leave  me 
in  the  lurch!  What  should  I  do  without  you, 
with  all  these  people  on  my  hands  ?  Don't 
think  of  such  a  thing  as  leaving  me!" 

"Miss  Carr,"  said  Mrs.  Smithers,  solemnly, 
with  one  long  bony  finger  laid  alongside  of 
her  hooked  nose,  "'t  ain't  necessary  for  you 
to  run  no  Summer  hotel,  that 's  what  it  ain't. 
These  'ere  all  be  relations  of  your  uncle's  wife 
and  none  of  his  'n  except  by  marriage.  Wot 's 
more,  your  uncle  don't  want  'em  'ere,  that  's 
wot  'e  don't." 

Mrs.  Smithers's  tone  was  so  confident  that 
for  the  moment  Dorothy  was  startled,  remem 
bering  yesterday's  vague  allusion  to  "sheeted 
spectres  of  the  dead." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"Miss  Carr,"  returned  Mrs.  Smithers,  with 
due  dignity,  "ever  since  I  come  'ere,  I  've 
been  invited  to  shut  my  'ead  whenever  I 
opened  it  about  that  there  cat  or  your  uncle 
or  anythink,  as  you  well  knows.  I  was  never 
one  wot  was  fond  of  'avin'  my  'ead  shut 
up." 


266 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


<3ool> 
jfoitune 


"Go  on,"  said  Dorothy,  her  curiosity  fully 
alive,  "and  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"You  gives  me  your  solemn  oath,  Miss, 
that  you  won't  tell  me  to  shut  my  'ead?" 
queried  Mrs.  Smithers. 

"Of  course,"  returned  Dorothy,  trying  to 
be  practical,  though  the  atmosphere  was 
sepulchral  enough. 

"Well,  then,  you  knows  wot  I  told  you 
about  that  there  cat.  'E  was  kilt  by  your 
uncle,  that  's  wot  'e  was,  and  your  uncle 
could  n't  never  abide  cats.  'E  was  that  feared 
of  'em  'e  could  n't  even  bury  'em  when  they 
was  kilt,  and  one  of  my  duties,  Miss,  as  long 
as  I  lived  with  'im,  was  buryin'  of  cats,  and 
until  this  one,  I  never  come  up  with  one  wot 
could  n't  stay  buried,  that 's  wot  I  'ave  n't. 

"  'E  'ated  'em  like  poison,  that 's  wot  'e  did. 
The  week  afore  your  uncle  died,  he  kilt  this 
'ere  cat  wot  's  chasin'  the  chickens  now,  and 
I  buried  'im  with  my  own  hands,  but  could  'e 
stay  buried  ?  'E  could  not.  No  sooner  is 
your  uncle  dead  and  gone  than  this  'ere  cat 
comes  back,  and  it  's  the  truth,  Miss  Carr,  for 
where  'e  was  buried,  there  ain't  no  sign  of  a 
cat  now.  Wot  's  worse,  this  'ere  cat  looks 
per-cisely  like  your  uncle,  green  eyes,  white 


<3oo&  fortune  267 

shirt  front,  black  tie  and  all.     It  's  enough  to        trbc 
give  a  body  the  shivers  to  see  'im  a-settin'  on 
the  kitchen  floor  lappin'  up  'is  mush  and  milk, 
the  which  your  uncle  was  so  powerful  fond  of. 

"  Wot  's  more,"  continued  Mrs.  Smithers, 
in  tones  of  awe,  "  I  '11  a'most  bet  my  immortal 
soul  that  if  you  '11  dig  in  the  cemetery  where 
your  uncle  was  buried  good  and  proper,  you 
won't  find  nothin'  but  the  empty  coffin  and 
maybe  'is  grave  clothes.  Your  uncle  's  been 
livin'  with  us  all  along  in  that  there  cat,"  she 
added,  triumphantly.  "It  's  'is  punishment, 
for  'e  could  n't  never  abide  'em,  that  's  wot  'e 
could  n't." 

Mrs.  Carr  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  then, 
remembering  her  promise,  took  refuge  in 
flight. 

"'Er  's  scared,"  muttered  Mrs.  Smithers, 
"and  no  wonder.  Wot  with  cats  as  can't 
stay  buried,  writin'  letters  and  deliverin'  'em 
in  the  dead  of  night,  and  a  purrin'  like  mad 
while  blamed  fools  digs  for  eight  cents,  most 
folks  would  be  scared,  I  take  it,  that  's  wot 
they  would." 

Dorothy  was  pale  when  she  went  into  the 
library  where  Harlan  was  at  work.  He 
frowned  at  the  interruption  and  Dorothy 


268 


Ht  tbe  Si$n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


fortune 


smiled  back  at  him — it  seemed  so  normal 
and  sane. 

"What  is  it,  Dorothy?"  he  asked,  not 
unkindly. 

' '  Oh — just  Mrs.  Smithers's  nonsense.  She  's 
upset  me." 

"What  about,  dear  ?  "  Harlan  put  his  work 
aside  readily  enough  now. 

"Oh,  the  same  old  story  about  the  cat  and 
Uncle  Ebeneezer.  And  I  'm  afraid " 

"  Afraid  of  what?" 

"I  know  it 's  foolish,  but  I  'm  afraid  she  's 
going  to  dig  in  the  cemetery  to  see  if  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  is  still  there.  She  thinks  he  's  in 
the  cat." 

For  the  moment,  Harlan  thought  Dorothy 
had  suddenly  lost  her  reason,  then  he  laughed 
heartily. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  "she  won't  do 
anything  of  the  kind,  and,  besides,  what  if 
she  did  ?  It 's  a  free  country,  is  n't  it  ?" 

"And  —  there  's  another  thing,  Harlan." 
For  days  she  had  dreaded  to  speak  of  it,  but 
now  it  could  be  put  off  no  longer. 

"It  's — it  's  money,"  she  went  on,  un 
willingly.  "I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  managed 
very  well,  or  else  it 's  cost  so  much  for  every- 


<3ooC>  jfortune 


269 


thing,  but  we  're — we  're  almost  broke,  Har- 
lan,"  she  concluded,  bravely,  trying  to  smile. 

Harlan  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
began  to  walk  back  and  forth.  "  If  I  can  only 
finish  the  book,"  he  said,  at  length,  "I  think 
we  '11  be  all  right,  but  I  can't  leave  it  now. 
There  's  only  two  more  chapters  to  write,  and 
then " 

"And  then,"  cried  Dorothy,  her  beautiful 
belief  in  him  transfiguring  her  face,  "then 
we  '11  be  rich,  won't  we?" 

"I  am  already  rich,"  returned  Harlan, 
"  when  you  have  such  faith  in  me  as  that." 

For  a  moment  the  shimmering  veil  of  es 
trangement  which  so  long  had  hung  between 
them,  seemed  to  part,  and  reveal  soul  to  soul. 
As  swiftly  the  mood  changed  and  Dorothy 
felt  it  first,  like  a  chill  mist  in  the  air.  Neither 
dreamed  that  with  the  writing  of  the  first 
paragraph  in  the  book,  the  spell  had  claimed 
one  of  them  for  ever — that  cobweb  after  cob 
web,  of  gossamer  fineness,  should  make  a 
fabric  never  to  be  broken ;  that  on  one  side  of 
it  should  stand  a  man  who  had  exchanged  his 
dreams  for  realities  and  his  realities  for  dreams, 
and  on  the  other,  a  woman,  blindly  hurt, 
eternally  straining  to  see  beyond  the  veil. 


"Hlmost 
JBrofce  " 


270 


Bt  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


fortune 


"What  can  we  do?"  asked  Harlan,  un- 
wontedly  practical  for  the  nonce. 

' '  I  don't  know, "  said  Dorothy.  ' '  There  are 
the  diamonds,  you  know,  that  we  found.  I 
don't  care  for  any  diamonds,  except  the  one 
you  gave  me.  If  we  could  sell  those — 

"Dorothy,  don't.  I  don't  believe  they're 
ours,  and  if  they  were,  they  should  n't  be 
sold.  You  should  keep  them." 

"My  engagement  ring,  then,"  suggested 
Dorothy,  her  lips  trembling.  "That 's  ours." 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  said  Harlan,  a  little 
roughly.  "  I  '11  finish  this  and  then  we  '11  see 
what 's  to  be  done." 

Feeling  her  dismissal,  Dorothy  went  out, 
and,  all  unknowingly,  straight  into  the 
sunshine. 

Elaine  was  coming  downstairs,  fresh  and 
sweet  as  the  morning  itself.  "Am  I  too  late 
to  have  any  breakfast,  Mrs.  Carr  ?"  she  asked, 
gaily.  "I  know  I  don't  deserve  any." 

"Of  course  you  shall  have  breakfast.  I  '11 
see  to  it." 

Elaine  took  her  place  at  the  table  and  Doro 
thy,  reluctant  to  put  further  strain  on  the  frail 
bond  that  anchored  Mrs.  Smithers  to  her 
service,  brought  in  the  breakfast  herself. 


0oot>  fortune  27I 


"You  're  so  good  to  me,"  said  the  girl, 
gratefully,  as  Dorothy  poured  out  a  cup  of 
steaming  coffee.  "To  think  how  beautiful 
you  've  been  to  me,  when  I  never  saw  either 
one  of  you  in  my  whole  life,  till  I  came  here 
ill  and  broken-hearted!  See  what  you  've 
made  of  me — see  how  well  and  strong  I 
am! " 

Swiftly,  Dorothy  bent  and  kissed  Elaine,  a 
strange,  shadowy  cloud  for  ever  lifted  from 
her  heart.  She  had  not  known  how  heavy  it 
was  nor  how  charged  with  foreboding,  until  it 
was  gone. 

"I  want  to  do  something  for  you,"  Elaine 
went  on,  laughing  to  hide  the  mist  in  her 
eyes,  "and  I  've  just  thought  what  I  can  do. 
My  mother  had  some  beautiful  old  mahogany 
furniture,  just  loads  of  it,  and  some  wonderful 
laces,  and  I  'm  going  to  divide  with  you." 

"No,  you  're  not,"  returned  Dorothy, 
warmly.  She  felt  that  Elaine  had  already 
given  her  enough. 

"It  is  n't  meant  for  payment,  Mrs.  Carr," 
the  girl  went  on,  her  big  blue  eyes  fixed  upon 
Dorothy,  "  but  you  're  to  take  it  from  me  just 
as  I  've  taken  this  lovely  Summer  from  you. 
You  took  in  a  stranger,  weak  and  helpless  and 


B.  Cloud 
lifts 


272 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


<&oot>       half-crazed  with  grief,  and  you  've  made  her 
fortune       .    .         ,  .     ,, 

into  a  happy  woman  again. 

Before  Dorothy  could  answer,  Dick  lounged 
in,  frankly  sleepy.  "Second  call  in  the  dining 
car?"  he  asked,  taking  Mrs.  Dodd's  place, 
across  the  table  from  Elaine. 

"Third  call,"  returned  Dorothy,  brightly, 
"and,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  leave  you  two  to 
wait  on  yourselves."  She  went  upstairs,  her 
heart  light,  not  so  much  from  reality  as  from 
prescience.  "How  true  it  is,"  she  thought, 
"that  if  you  only  wait  and  do  the  best  you 
can,  things  all  work  out  straight  again.  I  've 
had  to  learn  it,  but  I  know  it  now." 

"Bully  bunch,  the  Carrs,"  remarked  Dick, 
pushing  his  cup  to  Elaine. 

"They  're  lovely,"  she  answered,  with 
conviction. 

The  sun  streamed  brightly  into  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  and  changed  its 
hideousness  into  cheer.  Seeing  Elaine  across 
from  him,  gracefully  pouring  his  coffee,  af 
fected  Dick  strangely.  Since  the  day  before,  he 
had  seen  clearly  something  which  he  must  do. 

"I say,  Elaine,"  he  began,  awkwardly. 
"That  beast  of  a  poem  I  read  the  other 
day " 


Ooo&  fortune 


273 


Her  face  paled,  ever  so  slightly.     "Yes  ?  " 

"Well,  Perkins  did  n't  write  it,  you  know," 
Dick  went  on,  hastily.  "I  did  it  myself. 
Or,  rather  I  found  it,  blowing  around,  outside, 
just  as  I  said,  and  I  fixed  it." 

At  length  he  became  restless  under  the  calm 
scrutiny  of  Elaine's  clear  eyes.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  continued. 

"Did  you  think,"  she  asked,  "that  it  was 
nice  to  make  fun  of  a  lady  in  that  way  ?  " 

"I  did  n't  think,  returned  Dick,  truthfully. 
"I  never  thought  for  a  minute  that  it  was 
making  fun  of  you,  but  only  of  that — that  pup, 
Perkins,"  he  concluded,  viciously. 

"Under  the  circumstances,"  said  Elaine, 
ignoring  the  epithet,  "the  silence  of  Mr.  Per 
kins  has  been  very  noble.  I  shall  tell  him 
so." 

"Do,"  answered  Dick,  with  difficulty. 
"  He  's  ambling  up  to  the  lunch-counter 
now."  Mr.  Chester  went  out  by  way  of  the 
window,  swallowing  hard. 

' '  I  have  just  been  told, "  said  Miss  St.  Clair  to 
the  poet,  "  that  the — er — poem  was  not  writ 
ten  by  you,  and  I  apologise  for  what  I  said." 

Mr.  Perkins  bowed  in  acknowledgment. 
"It  is  a  small  matter,"  he  said,  wearily, 


Aaftfng 
f  un  of  a 


274 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*=%antern 


(Boob 
Jot-tune 


running  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  It  was, 
indeed,  compared  with  deep  sorrow  of  a  pene 
trating  kind,  and  a  sleepless  night,  but  Elaine 
did  not  relish  the  comment. 

"Were  —  were  you  restless  in  the  night?" 
she  asked,  conventionally. 

"I  was.  I  did  not  sleep  at  all  until  after 
four  o'clock,  and  then  only  for  a  few  mo 
ments." 

"I  'm  sorry.  Did — did  you  write  any 
thing?" 

"I  began  an  epic,"  answered  the  poet, 
touched,  for  the  moment,  by  this  unexpected 
sympathy.  "An  epic  in  blank  verse,  on 
'Disappointment.' ' 

"  I'm  sure  it 's  beautiful,"  continued  Elaine, 
coldly.  "And  that  reminds  me.  I  have 
hunted  through  my  room,  in  every  possible 
place,  and  found  nothing." 

A  flood  of  painful  emotion  overwhelmed 
the  poet,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
In  a  flash,  Elaine  was  violently  angry,  though 
she  could  not  have  told  why.  She  marched 
out  of  the  dining-room  and  slammed  the  door. 
"Delicate,  sensitive  soul,"  she  said  to  herself, 
scornfully.  ' '  Wants  people  to  hunt  for  money 
he  thinks  may  be  hidden  in  his  room,  and  yet 


<3oo&  ^fortune  275 

is  so  far  above  sordidness  that  he  can't  hear  it 
spoken  of!"  *ricft' 

Seeing  Mr.  Chester  pacing  back  and  forth 
moodily  at  some  distance  from  the  house, 
Elaine  rushed  out  to  him.  "  Dick,"  she  cried, 
"he  is  a  lobster!  " 

Dick's  clouded  face  brightened.  "  Is  he  ?" 
he  asked,  eagerly,  knowing  instinctively 
whom  she  meant.  "Elaine,  you  're  a  brick! " 
They  shook  hands  in  token  of  absolute  agree 
ment  upon  one  subject  at  least,  and  the  girl's 
right  hand  hurt  her  for  some  little  time 
afterward. 

Left  to  himself,  Mr.  Perkins  mused  upon 
the  dread  prospect  before  him.  For  years  he 
had  calculated  upon  a  generous  proportion 
of  his  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  estate,  and  had  even 
borrowed  money  upon  the  strength  of  his 
expectations.  These  debts  now  loomed  up 
inconveniently. 

The  vulgar,  commercial  people  from  whom 
Mr.  Perkins  had  borrowed  filthy  coin  were 
quite  capable  of  speaking  of  the  matter,  and 
in  an  unpleasant  manner  at  that.  The  fine 
soul  of  Mr.  Perkins  shrank  from  the  ordeal. 
He  had  that  particular  disdain  of  commercial 
ism  which  is  inseparable  from  the  incapable 


276         Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*OLantern 

(Boo&  and  unsuccessful,  and  yet,  if  the  light  of  his 
genius  were  to  illuminate  a  desolate  world, 
Mr.  Perkins  must  have  money. 

He  might  even  have  to  degrade  himself  by 
coarse  toil — and  hitherto,  he  had  been  too 
proud  to  work.  The  thought  was  terrible. 
Pegasus  hitched  to  the  plough  was  nothing 
compared  with  the  prospect  of  Mr.  Perkins 
being  obliged  to  earn  three  or  four  dollars  a 
week  in  some  humble,  common  capacity. 

Then  a  bright  idea  came  to  his  rescue. 
"Mr.  Carr,"  he  thought,  "the  gentleman  who 
is  now  entertaining  me — he  is  doing  my  own 
kind  of  work,  though  of  course  it  is  less  fine 
in  quality.  Perhaps  he  would  like  the  oppor 
tunity  of  going  down  to  posterity  as  the 
humble  Maecenas  of  a  new  Horace." 

Borne  to  the  library  in  the  rush  of  this  at 
tractive  idea,  Mr.  Perkins  opened  the  door, 
which  Harlan  had  forgotten  to  lock,  and  with 
out  in  any  way  announcing  himself,  broke  in 
on  Harlan's  chapter. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the 
irate  author.  "  What  business  have  you  but 
ting  in  here  like  this  ?  Get  out!  " 

"I  — "  stammered  Mr.  Perkins. 

"Get  out!  "  thundered  Harlan.     It  sounded 


fortune 


277 


strangely  like  the  last  phrase  of  "dear  Uncle 
Ebeneezer's  last  communication,"  and,  trem 
bling,  the  disconsolate  poet  obeyed.  He  fled 
to  his  own  room  as  a  storm-tossed  ship  to  its 
last  harbour,  and  renewed  the  composition  of 
his  epic  on  "  Disappointment,"  for  which,  by 
this  time,  he  had  additional  material. 

Harlan  went  back  to  his  work,  but  the 
mood  was  gone.  The  living,  radiant  picture 
had  wholly  vanished,  and  in  its  place  was  a 
heap  of  dead,  dry,  meaningless  words.  "  Did 
I  write  it?"  asked  Harlan,  of  himself,  "and 
if  so,  why  ?  " 

Like  the  mocking  fantasy  of  a  dream  as  seen 
in  the  instant  of  waking,  Elaine  and  her  com 
pany  had  gone,  as  if  to  return  no  more.  Only 
two  chapters  were  yet  to  be  written,  and  he 
knew,  vaguely,  what  Elaine  was  about  to  do 
when  he  left  her,  but  his  pen  had  lost  the 
trick  of  writing. 

Deeply  troubled,  Harlan  went  to  the  win 
dow,  where  the  outer  world  still  had  the  curi 
ous  appearance  of  unreality.  It  was  as  though 
a  sheet  of  glass  were  between  him  and  the 
life  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  could  see 
through  it  clearly,  but  the  barrier  was  there, 
and  must  always  be  there.  Upon  the  edge 


E>tsap= 
potntment 


278 


Ht  tbe  5i0n  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*2Lantem 


©005 

fortune 


of  this  glass,  the  light  of  life  should  break  and 
resolve  itself  into  prismatic  colours,  of  which 
he  should  see  one  at  a  time,  now  and  then 
more,  and  often  a  clear,  pitiless  view  of  the 
world  should  give  him  no  colour  at  all. 

Presently  Lawyer  Bradford  came  up  the  hill, 
dressed  for  a  formal  call.  In  a  flash  it  brought 
back  to  Harlan  the  day  the  old  man  had  first 
come  to  the  Jack-o'-Lantern,  when  Dorothy 
was  a  happy  girl  with  a  care-free  boy  for  a 
husband.  How  much  had  happened  since, 
and  how  old  and  grey  the  world  had  grown! 

"I  desire  to  see  the  distinguished  author, 
Mr.  Carr,"  the  thin,  piping  voice  was  saying 
at  the  door,  "upon  a  matter  of  immediate 
and  personal  importance.  And  Mrs.  Carr 
also,  if  she  is  at  leisure.  Privacy  is  absolutely 
essential." 

"Come  into  the  library,"  said  Harlan,  from 
the  doorway.  Another  interruption  made 
no  difference  now.  Dorothy  soon  followed, 
much  mystified  by  the  way  in  which  Mrs. 
Smithers  had  summoned  her. 

Remembering  the  inopportune  intrusion  of 
Mr.  Perkins,  Harlan  locked  the  door.  "Now, 
Mr.  Bradford,"  he  said,  easily,  "what  is  it?" 

"I  should  have  told  you  before,"  began  the 


(3oofc  ^fortune 


old  lawyer,  "had  not  the  bonds  of  silence 
been  laid  upon  me  by  one  whom  we  all  re- 
vere  and  who  is  now  past  carrying  out  his  own 
desires.  The  house  is  yours,  as  my  letters  of 
an  earlier  date  apprised  you,  and  the  will  is  to 
be  probated  at  the  Fall  term  of  court. 

"Your  uncle,"  went  on  Mr.  Bradford,  un 
willingly,  "was  a  great  sufferer  from  —  from 
relations,"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice  to  a 
shrill  whisper,  "and  he  has  chosen  to  revenge 
himself  for  his  sufferings  in  his  own  way. 
Of  this  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak,  though 
no  definite  silence  was  required  of  me  later 
than  yesterday. 

"There  is,  however,  a  farm  of  two  thou 
sand  acres,  all  improved,  which  is  still  to  come 
to  you,  and  a  sum  of  money  amounting  to 
something  over  ten  thousand  dollars,  in  the 
bank  to  your  credit.  The  multitudinous  duties 
in  connection  with  the  practice  of  my  profes 
sion  have  prevented  me  from  making  myself 
familiar  with  the  exact  amount. 

"And,"  he  went  on,  looking  at  Dorothy, 
"there  is  a  very  beautiful  diamond  pin,  the 
gift  of  my  lamented  friend  to  his  lovely  young 
wife  upon  the  day  of  the  solemnisation  of  their 
nuptials,  which  was  to  be  given  to  the  wife  of 


280 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


<Boo& 
Jportune 


Mr.  Judson's  nephew  when  he  should  marry. 
It  is  sewn  in  a  mattress  in  the  room  at  the  end 
of  the  north  wing." 

The  earth  whirled  beneath  Dorothy's  feet. 
At  first,  she  had  not  fully  comprehended  what 
Mr.  Bradford  was  saying,  but  now  she  real 
ised  that  they  had  passed  from  pinching  pov 
erty  to  affluence — at  least  it  seemed  so  to  her. 
Harlan  was  not  so  readily  confused,  but  none 
the  less,  he,  too,  was  dazed.  Neither  of  them 
could  speak. 

"I  should  be  grateful,"  the  old  man  was 
saying,  "if  you  would  ask  Mr.  Richard  Ches 
ter  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Smithers  to  come  to  my 
office  at  their  earliest  convenience.  I  will  not 
trespass  upon  their  valuable  time  at  present." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  Mr. 
Bradford  cleared  his  throat,  and  wiped  his 
glasses  several  times.  "The  farm  has  always 
been  held  in  my  name,"  he  continued,  "  to 
protect  our  lamented  friend  and  benefactor 
from  additional  disturbance.  If — if  the  rela 
tions  had  known,  his  life  would  have  been 
even  less  peaceful  than  it  was.  A  further  farm, 
valued  at  twelve  thousand  dollars,  and  also 
held  in  my  name,  is  my  friend's  last  gift  to 
me,  as  I  discovered  by  opening  a  personal 


<3oot>  fortune  281 

letter  which  was  to  be  kept  sealed  until  this 
morning.  I  did  not  open  it  until  late  in  the 
morning,  not  wishing  to  show  unseemly 
eagerness  to  pry  into  my  friend's  affairs.  I 
am  too  much  affected  to  speak  of  it — I  feel 
his  loss  too  keenly.  He  was  my  Colonel — I 
served  under  him  in  the  war." 

A  mist  filled  the  old  man's  eyes  and  he 
fumbled  for  the  door-knob.  Harlan  found  it 
for  him,  turned  the  key,  and  opened  the  door. 
Mrs.  Dodd,  Mrs.  Holmes,  Mrs.  Smithers,  and 
the  suffering  poet  were  all  in  the  hall,  their 
attitudes  plainly  indicating  that  they  had  been 
listening  at  the  door,  but  something  in  Mr. 
Bradford's  face  made  them  huddle  back  into 
the  corner,  ashamed. 

Feeling  his  way  with  his  cane,  he  went  to 
the  parlour  door,  where  he  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  at  the  threshold,  his  streaming  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  portrait  over  the  mantel.  The 
simple  dignity  of  his  grief  forbade  a  word 
from  any  one.  At  length  he  straightened  him 
self,  brought  his  trembling  hand  to  his  fore 
head  in  a  feeble  military  salute,  and,  wiping 
his  eyes,  tottered  off  downhill. 


282 


Elaine 

fniowe  her 
Ueart 


XVII 


//  was  on  a  dark  and  stormy  midnight,  when 
the  thunders  boomed  and  the  dread  fury  of 
the  lightnings  scarred  the  overhanging  cliffs, 
that  the  Lady  Elaine  at  last  came  to  know  her 
heart. 

She  was  in  a  cave,  safe  from  all  but  the 
noise  of  the  storm.  A  cheery  fire  blamed  at 
her  door,  and  her  bed  within  was  made  soft 
with  pine  boughs  and  skins.  For  weeks  they 
had  journeyed  here  and  there,  yet  there  had 
been  no  knight  in  whose  face  Elaine  could  find 
what  she  sought. 

As  she  lay  on  her  couch,  she  reflected  upon 
the  faithful  wayfarers  who  had  travelled  with 
her,  who  had  ever  been  gentle  and  courtly, 
saving  her  from  all  annoyance  and  all  harm. 
Yet  above  them  all,  there  was  one  who,  from 
the  time  of  their  starting,  had  kept  vigilant 
guard.  He  was  the  humblest  of  them  all,  but 


Ube  3La&£  Elaine  fmows  bee  Ibeart 


283 


it  -was  he  who  made  her  rest  in  shady  places  by 
the  way  side  when  she  herself  scarce  knew  that 
she  was  weary;  had  given  her  cool  spring  water 
in  a  cup  cunningly  woven  of  leaves  before  she 
had  realised  her  thirst;  had  brought  her  berries 
and  strange,  luscious  fruits  before  she  had 
thought  of  hunger;  and  who  had  cheered  her, 
many  a  time,  when  no  one  else  had  guessed 
that  she  was  sad. 

Outside,  he  was  guarding  her  now,  all  heed 
less  of  the  rain.  She  could  see  him  dimly  in 
the  shadow,  then,  all  at  once,  more  clearly  in 
the  firelight.  His  head  was  bowed  and  his 
arms  folded,  yet  in  the  strong  lines  of  his 
body  there  was  no  hint  of  weariness.  Well 
did  the  Lady  Elaine  know  that  until  Dawn  spun 
her  web  of  enchantment  upon  the  mysterious 
loom  of  the  East,  he  would  march  sleeplessly 
before  her  door,  replenishing  the  fire,  listen 
ing  now  and  then  for  her  deep  breathing, 
and,  upon  the  morrow,  gaily  tell  her  of  his 
dreams. 

Dreams  they  were,  indeed,  but  not  the  dreams 
of  sleep.  Upon  these  midnight  marchings, 
her  sentinel  gave  his  wandering  fancy  free 
rein.  And  because  of  the  dumb  pain  in  his 
heart,  these  fancies  were  all  the  merrier  ; 


Ube 

iMimbUst 
of  Ubem 

BH 


284 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  Jacfc^OLantern 


Elaine 

t?nowB  bee 

Ijeatt 


more  golden  with  the  sun  of  laughter,  more 
gemmed  with  the  pearl  of  tears. 

Proud-hearted,  yet  strangely  homesick,  the 
Lady  Elaine  was  restless  this  night.  "  I  must 
go  back,"  she  thought,  "  to  the  Castle  of  Con 
tent,  where  my  dear  father  would  fain  have 
his  child  again.  And  yet  I  dread  to  go  back 
with  my  errand  undone,  my  quest  unrewarded. 

"What  is  it,"  thought  Elaine,  in  sudden 
self -searching,  "that  I  seek?  What  must 
this  man  be,  to  whom  I  would  surrender  the 
keeping  of  my  heart  ?  What  do  I  ask  that  is 
so  hard  to  find? 

"  Am  I  seeking  for  a  god  ?  Nayt  surely  not, 
but  only  for  a  man.  Valorous  he  must  be,  in 
deed,  but  not  in  the  lists — 'tis  not  a  soldier, 
for  I  have  seen  them  by  the  hundred  since 
I  left  my  home  in  the  valley.  '  T  is  not  a 
model  for  the  tapestry  weaver  that  my  heart 
would  have,  for  I  have  seen  the  most  beautiful 
youths  of  my  country  since  I  came  forth  upon 
my  quest. 

"Some  one,  perchance,"  mused  the  Lady 
Elaine,  "whose  beauty  my  eyes  alone  should 
perceive,  whose  valour  only  I  should  guess 
before  there  was  need  to  test  it.  Some  one  great 
of  heart  and  clean  of  mind,  in  whose  eyes 


SLafcg  Elaine  Iknows  ber  tbeart 


285 


there  should  never  be  that  which  makes  a 
woman  ashamed.  Some  one  fine-fibred  and 
strong-souled,  not  above  tenderness  when  a 
maid  was  tired.  One  who  should  make  a 
shield  of  his  love,  to  keep  her  not  only  from 
the  great  hurts  but  from  the  little  ones  as 
well,  and  yet  with  whom  she  might  fare 
onward,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  God  meant 
mates  should  fare. 

"  Surely  'tis  not  so  unusual,  this  thing  that 
I  ask — only  an  honest  man  with  human  faults 
and  human  virtues,  transfigured  by  a  great 
love.  And  why  is  it  that  in  this  quest  of  mine, 
I  have  found  him  not  ?  ' ' 

"Princess,"  said  a  voice  at  her  doorway, 
"  thou  art  surely  still  awake.  The  storm  is 
lessening  and  there  is  naught  to  fear.  I  pray 
thee,  try  to  sleep.  And  if  there  is  aught  I 
can  do  for  thee,  thou  knowest  thou  hast  only 
to  speak. ' ' 

From  the  warm  darkness  where  she  lay, 
Elaine  saw  his  face  with  the  firelight  upon  it, 
and  all  at  once  she  knew. 

"  There  is  naught,"  she  answered,  with 
what  he  thought  was  coldness.  "Ibid  thee 
leave  me  and  lake  thine  own  rest." 

"As  thou  wilt,"  he   responded,   submis- 


©nc  tdbo 
Sboulb 
flDafce  a 
Sbieto 


286 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Elaine 

•Knows  bet 

fjcart 


sively,  but  though  the  sound  was  now  faint 
and  far  away,  she  still  could  hear  him  walk 
ing  back  and  forth,  keeping  his  unremitting 
guard. 

So  it  was  that  at  last  Love  came  to  the  Lady 
Elaine.  She  had  dreamed  of  some  fair 
stranger,  into  whose  eyes  she  should  look  and 
instantly  know  him  for  her  lord,  never  guess 
ing  that  her  lord  had  gone  with  her  when  she 
left  the  Castle  of  Content.  There  was  none 
of  those  leaps  of  the  heart  of  which  one  of 
the  maids  at  the  Castle  had  read  from  the 
books  while  the-  others  worked  at  the  tapestry 
frames.  It  was  nothing  new,  but  only  a  light 
upon  something  which  had  always  been,  and 
which,  because  of  her  own  blindness,  she  had 
not  seen. 

All  through  this  foolish  journey,  Love  had 
ridden  beside  the  Lady  Elaine,  asking  nothing 
but  the  privilege  of  serving  her ;  demanding 
only  the  right  to  give,  to  sacrifice,  to  shield. 
And  at  last  she  knew. 

The  doubting  in  her  heart  was  for  ever 
stilled  and  in  its  place  was  a  great  peace. 
There  was  an  unspeakable  tenderness  and  a 
measureless  compassion,  so  wide  and  so  deep 
that  it  sheltered  all  the  world.  For,  strangely 


%at>s  jElaine  Ifcnows  ber  Ibeart 


enough,  the  love  of  the  many  comes  first 
through  the  love  of  the  one. 

The  Lady  Elaine  did  not  need  to  ask  whether 
he  loved  her,  for,  unerringly,  she  knew.  Mated 
past  all  power  of  change,  they  two  were  one 
henceforward,  though  seas  should  roll  between. 
Mated  through  suffering  as  well,  for,  in  this 
new  bond,  as  the  Lady  Elaine  dimly  perceived, 
there  was  great  possibility  of  hurt.  Yet  there 
was  no  end  or  no  beginning  ;  it  simply  was,  and 
at  last  she  knew. 

At  length,  she  slept.  When  she  awoke  the 
morning  was  fair  upon  the  mountains,  but 
still  he  paced  back  and  forth  before  her  door. 
Rising,  she  bathed  her  face  in  the  cool  water 
he  had  brought  her,  braided  her  glorious 
golden  hair,  changed  her  soiled  habit  for  a 
fresh  robe  of  white  satin  traced  with  gold, 
donned  her  red  embroidered  slippers,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  sunrise,  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand  until  they  grew  accustomed  to 
the  dawn. 

"  Good  morrow,  Princess, "  he  said. 
"We " 

Of  a  sudden,  He  stopped  and  fled  like  a 
wild  thing  into  the  forest,  for  by  her  eyes,  he 
saw  what  was  in  her  heart,  and  his  hot  words, 


288 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


~C.bc  lal>B 

Elaine 

•fcnows  bee 

Ueatt 


struggling  for  utterance,  choked  him.  "At 
last,"  he  breathed,  with  his  clenched  hands 
on  his  breast;  "  at  last — but  no,  'tis  another 
dream  of  mine  that  I  dare  not  believe. ' ' 

His  senses  reeled,  for  love  comes  not  to  a 
man  as  to  a  woman,  but  rather  with  the  sound 
of  trumpets  and  the  glare  of  white  light.  The 
cloistered  peace  that  fills  her  soul  rests  seldom 
upon  him,  and  instead  he  is  stirred  with  high 
ambition  and  spurred  on  to  glorious  achieve 
ment.  For  to  her,  love  is  the  end  of  life  ;  to 
him  it  is  the  means. 

The  knights  thought  it  but  another  caprice 
when  the  Lady  Elaine  gave  orders  to  return  to 
the  Castle  of  Content,  at  once,  and  by  the 
shortest  way — all  save  one  of  them.  With 
his  heart  rioting  madly  through  his  breast,  he 
knew,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Elaine. 
He  was  as  one  long  blinded,  who  suddenly  sees 
the  sun. 

So  it  was  that  though  he  still  served  her,  he 
rode  no  longer  by  her  side,  and  Elaine,  hurt 
at  first,  at  length  understood,  and  smiled 
because  of  her  understanding.  All  the  way 
back,  the  Lady  Elaine  sang  little  songs  to  her 
self,  and,  the  while  she  rode  upon  her  palfrey, 
touched  her  Cither  into  gentle  harmonies. 


JElafne  Hwows  ber  Ibeart 


289 


After  many  days,  they  came  within  sight  of 
the  Castle  of  Content. 

As  before,  it  was  sunset,  and  the  long  light 
lay  upon  the  hills,  while  the  valley  was  in 
shadow.  Purple  were  the  -vineyards,  heavy 
with  their  clustered  treasure,  over  which  the 
tiny  weavers  had  made  their  lace,  and  purple, 
too,  were  the  many-spired  cliffs,  behind  which 
the  sunset  shone. 

A  courier,  riding  swiftly  in  advance,  had 
apprised  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Content 
of  the  return  of  the  Lady  Elaine,  and  the 
maids  from  the  tapestry  room,  and  the  keeper 
of  the  wine-cellar,  and  the  stable-boys,  and 
the  candle-makers,  and  the  light-bearers  all 
rushed  out,  heedless  of  their  manners,  for, 
one  and  all,  they  loved  the  Lady  Elaine,  and 
were  eager  to  behold  their  beautiful  mistress 
again. 

But  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Content,  speak 
ing  somewhat  sternly,  ordered  them  one  and 
all  back  to  their  places,  and,  shamefacedly, 
they  obeyed.  "  I  would  not  be  selfish, ' '  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "but  surely,  Elaine  is 
mine,  and  the  first  gleam  of  her  beauty  belongs 
of  right  to  these  misty  old  eyes  of  mine,  that 
have  long  strained  across  the  dark  for  the 


Ubc 
•(Return 


290 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfc*o'*%antern 


TEbc  lab? 

Elaine 

Knows  ber 

txart 


first  hint  of  her  coming.  Of  a  truth  her 
quest  has  been  long. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  when  the  company 
reached  the  road  that  led  down  into  the  val 
ley,  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Content  was  on 
the  portico  alone,  though  he  could  not  have 
known  that  behind  every  shuttered  window  of 
the  Castle,  a  humble  servitor  of  Elaine's  was 
waiting  anxiously  for  her  coming. 

As  before,  Elaine  rode  at  the  head,  waving 
her  hand  to  her  father,  while  the  cymbals 
and  the  bugles  crashed  out  a  welcome.  She 
could  not  see,  but  she  guessed  that  he  was 
there,  and  in  return  he  waved  a  tremulous 
hand  at  her,  though  well  he  knew  that  in  the 
fast  gathering  twilight,  the  child  of  his  hearl 
could  not  see  the  one  who  awaited  her. 

One  by  one,  as  they  came  in  single  file  down 
the  precipice,  the  old  man  counted  them,  much 
astonished  to  see  that  there  was  no  new  mem 
ber  of  the  company — that  as  many  were  coming 
back  as  had  gone  away.  For  the  moment  his 
heart  was  glad,  then  he  reproached  himself 
bitterly  for  his  selfishness,  and  was  truthfully 
most  tender  toward  Elaine,  because  she  had 
failed  upon  her  quest. 

The  light  gleamed  capriciously  upon  the 


ttbe  XaDg  Elaine  fmows  ber  Tbcart 


291 


bauble  of  the  fool,  which  he  still  carried, 
though  now  it  hung  downward  from  his 
saddle,  foolishly  enough.  "  A  most  merry 
fool,"  said  the  Lord  of  Content  to  himself. 
"  I  was  wise  to  insist  upon  his  accompanying 
this  wayward  child  of  mine." 

Wayward  she  might  be,  yet  her  father's 
eyes  were  dim  when  she  came  down  into  the 
valley,  where  there  was  no  light  save  the 
evening  star,  a  taper  light  at  an  upper  window 
of  the  Castle,  and  her  illumined  face. 

"How  hast  thou  fared  upon  thy  quest, 
Elaine?  "  he  ashed  in  trembling  tones,  when 
at  last  she  released  herself  from  his  eager 
embrace.  He  dreaded  to  hear  her  make  known 
her  disappointment,  yet  his  sorrow  was  all  for 
her,  and  not  in  the  least  for  himself. 

" 1 have  found  him,  father,"  she  said,  the 
gladness  in  her  voice  betraying  itself  as  surely 
as  the  music  in  a  stream  when  Spring  sets  it 
free  again,  "  and,  forsooth,  he  rode  with  me 
all  the  time." 

"  Which  knight  hast  thou  chosen,  Elaine  ?  ' ' 
he  asked,  a  little  sadly. 

"  No  knight  at  all,  dear  father.  I  have 
found  my  knight  in  stranger  guise  than  in 
armour  and  shield.  He  bears  no  lance,  save 


fDis 

TOUgwarb 
Cbtlfc 


292 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acft*o'*Xantern 


Elaine 

Tknowa  bet 

Ixart 


for  those  who  would  injure  me. ' '  And  then, 
she  beckoned  to  the  fool. 

ff  He  is  here,  my  father/'  she  went  on,  her 
great  love  making  her  all  unconscious  of  the 
shame  she  should  feel. 

"Elaine!"  thundered  her  father,  while 
the  fool  hung  his  head,  "hast  thou  taken 
leave  of  thy  senses  ?  Of  a  truth,  this  is  a 
sorry  jest  thou  hast  chosen  to  greet  me  with 
on  thy  return. ' ' 

"Father,"  said  Elaine,  made  bold  by  the 
silent  pressure  of  the  hand  that  secretly 
clasped  hers,  "  '  t  is  no  jest.  If  thou  art 
pained,  indeed  I  am  sorry,  but  if  thou  choosest 
to  banish  me,  then  this  night  will  I  go  gladly 
with  him  I  have  chosen  to  be  my  lord.  The 
true  heart  which  Heaven  has  sent  for  me  beats 
beneath  his  motley,  and  with  him  I  must  go. 
Dear  father,"  cried  Elaine,  piteously,  "do 
not  send  us  away  !  ' J 

The  stern  eyes  of  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of 
Content  were  fixed  upon  the  fool,  and  in 
the  gathering  darkness  they  gleamed  like  live 
coals.  "And  thou,"  he  said,  scornfully; 
"  what  hast  thou  to  say  ?  ' ' 

"  Only  this, ' '  answered  the  fool ;  "  that  the 
Princess  has  spoken  truly.  We  are  mated  by 


Ube  Xafcg  Elaine  iknows  ber  Ibeart 


293 


a  higher  law  than  that  of  thy  land  or  mine, 
and  'tis  this  law  that  we  must  obey.  If  thou 
sayest  the  word,  we  will  set  forth  to  my  country 
this  "very  night,  though  we  are  both  weary  with 
much  journeying. ' ' 

"  Thy  land,"  said  the  Lord  of  the  Castle, 
with  measureless  contempt,  "  and  what  land 
hast  thou  ?  Even  the  six  feet  of  ground  thou 
needesi  for  a  grave  must  be  given  thee  at  the 
last,  unless,  perchance,  thou  hast  a  handful 
of  stolen  earth  hidden  somewhere  among  thy 
other  jewels  !  ' ' 

"  Your  lordship,"  cried  the  fool,  with  a 
clear  ring  in  his  voice,  "thou  shall  not  speak 
so  to  the  man  who  is  to  wed  thy  daughter.  I 
had  not  thought  to  tell  even  her  till  after  the 
priests  had  made  us  one,  but  for  our  own  pro 
tection,  I  am  stung  into  speech. 

"  Know  then,  that  I  am  no  fool,  but  a  Prince 
of  the  House  of  Bernard.  My  acres  and  my 
vineyards  cover  five  times  the  space  of  this 
little  realm  of  thine.  Chests  of  gold  and 
jewels  I  have,  storehouses  overflowing  with 
grain  and  fine  fabrics,  three  castles  and  a 
royal  retinue.  Of  a  truth,  thou  art  blind 
since  thou  canst  see  naught  but  the  raiment. 
May  not  a  Prince  wear  motley  if  he  chooses, 


flDate£>  b\> 

a  IMijber 

law 


294 


2U  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Cbe  labs 

Elaine 

*now«  bee 

•fccart 


thus  to  find  a  maid  who  will  love  him  for 
himself  alone  ?  ' ' 

"Prince  Bernard,"  muttered  the  Lord  of 
Content,  "the  son  of  my  old  friend,  whom  I 
have  long  dreamed  in  secret  shouldst  wed  my 
dear  daughter  Elaine!  Your  Highness,  I  beg 
you  to  forgive  me,  and  to  take  my  hand." 

But  Prince  Bernard  did  not  hear,  nor  see 
the  outstretched  hand,  for  Elaine  was  in  his 
arms  for  the  first  time,  her  sweet  lips  close  on 
his.  "My  Prince,  oh  my  Prince,"  she  mur 
mured,  when  at  length  he  set  her  free ;  "my 
eyes  could  not  see,  but  my  heart  knew!  " 

So  ended  the  Qiiest  of  the  Lady  Elaine. 

With  a  sigh,  Harlan  wrote  the  last  words 
and  pushed  the  paper  from  him,  staring 
blankly  at  the  wall  and  seeing  nothing.  His 
labour  was  at  an  end,  all  save  the  final  copy 
ing,  and  the  painstaking  daily  revision  which 
would  take  weeks  longer.  The  exaltation  he 
had  expected  to  be  conscious  of  was  utterly 
absent ;  instead  of  it,  he  had  a  sense  of  loss, 
of  change. 

His  surroundings  seemed  hopelessly  sordid 
and  ugly,  now  that  the  glow  was  gone.  All 
unknowingly,  when  Harlan  pencilled  :  "The 
End,"  in  fanciful  letters  at  the  bottom  of  the 


ZTbe  Xafcg  Blatne  fmows  ber  "fceart 


295 


last  page,  he  had  had  practically  his  last  joy  of 
his  book.  The  torturing  process  of  revision 
was  to  take  all  the  life  out  of  it.  Sentences 
born  of  surging  emotion  would  seem  vapid 
and  foolish  when  subjected  to  the  cold,  critical 
eye  of  his  reason,  yet  he  knew,  dimly,  that  he 
must  not  change  it  too  much. 

"  I  '11  let  it  get  cool,"  he  thought,  "before  I 
do  anything  more  to  it." 

Yet,  now,  it  was  difficult  to  stop  working. 
The  rented  typewriter,  with  its  enticing 
bank  of  keys,  was  close  at  hand.  A  thousand 
sheets  of  paper  and  a  box  of  carbon  waited  in 
the  drawer  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  desk.  His 
worn  Thesaurus  of  English  Words  and 
Phrases  was  at  his  elbow.  And  they  were 
poor.  Then  Harlan  laughed,  for  they  were  no 
longer  poor,  and  he  had  wholly  forgotten  it. 

There  was  a  step  upon  the  porch  outside, 
then  Dorothy  came  into  the  hall.  She  paused 
outside  the  library  door  for  a  moment,  osten 
sibly  to  tie  her  shoe,  but  in  reality  to  listen. 
A  wave  of  remorseful  tenderness  over 
whelmed  Harlan  and  he  unlocked  the  door. 
"  Come  in,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  You  need  n't 
be  afraid  to  come  in  any  more.  The  book  is 
all  done." 


IMs  laat 

5os  of 

Die  aSeoft 


296 


Bt  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3ach=o'*Xantern 


Ube  Xat>\? 
Elaine 

ber 
fjeart 


"O  Harlan,  is  it  truly  done?"  There 
was  no  gladness  in  her  voice,  only  relief. 
Doubt  was  in  every  intonation  of  her  sen 
tence  ;  incredulity  in  every  line  of  her  body. 

With  this  pitiless  new  insight  of  his,  Harlan 
saw  how  she  had  felt  for  these  last  weeks  and 
became  very  tenderly  anxious  not  to  hurt  her; 
to  shield  his  transformed  self  from  her  quick 
understanding. 

"Really,"  he  answered.  "Have  I  been  a 
beast,  Dorothy?" 

The  question  was  so  like  the  boy  she  used 
to  know  that  her  heart  leaped  wildly,  then 
became  portentously  still. 

"Rather,"  she  admitted,  grudgingly,  from 
the  shelter  of  his  arms. 

"I'm  sorry.  If  you  say  so,  I'll  burn  it. 
Nothing  is  coming  between  you  and  me." 
The  words  sounded  hollow  and  meaningless, 
as  he  knew  they  were. 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "You 
won't  do  any  such  thing,"  she  said.  Dorothy 
had  learned  the  bitterness  of  the  woman's 
part,  to  stand  by,  utterly  lonely,  and  dream, 
and  wait,  while  men  achieve. 

"Can  I  read  it  now?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  You    could  n't    make    it    out,    Dorothy. 


ZTbe  Xafcs  Blaine  Tknows  ber  Ibeart        297 

When  it 's  all  done,  and  every  word  is  just  as      trwo  of 
I  want  it,  I  '11  read  it  to  you.     That  will  be 
better,  won't  it  ?  " 

"Can  Dick  come,  too?"  She  asked  the 
question  thoughtlessly,  then  flushed  as  Har- 
lan  took  her  face  between  his  hands. 

"Dorothy,  did  you  know  Dick  before  we 
were  married  ?  " 

"  Why,  Harlan  !  I  never  saw  him  in  all  my 
life  till  the  day  he  came  here.  Did  you  think 
I  had?" 

Harlan  only  grunted,  but  she  understood, 
and,  in  return,  asked  her  question.  "  Did 
you  write  the  book  about  Elaine  ?"  she  be 
gan,  half  ashamed. 

"Dear  little  idiot,"  said  Harlan,  softly. 
"I'd  begun  the  book  before  she  came  or 
before  I  knew  she  was  coming.  I  never  saw 
her  till  she  came  to  live  with  us.  You  're 
foolish,  dearest,  don't  you  think  you  are  ?  " 

He  was  swiftly  perceiving  the  necessity  of 
creating  a  new  harmony  to  take  the  place 
of  that  old  one,  now  so  strangely  lost. 

"There  are  two  of  us,"  returned  Dorothy, 
with  conviction,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  you'd  ask  me  things,"  said  Har 
lan,  a  little  later.  "I'm  no  mind  reader. 


298 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Elaine 

"knows  bee 

•fccart 


And,  besides,  the  seventh  son  of  a  seventh 
son,  born  with  a  caul,  and  having  three 
trances  regularly  every  day  after  meals,  never 
could  hope  to  understand  a  woman  unless 
she  was  willing  to  help  him  out  a  little, 
occasionally." 

Which,  after  all,  was  more  or  less  true. 


299 


XVIII 

Tflnde  Ebeneeser's 

HARLAN  had  taken  his  work  upstairs,  mjfne 
that  the  ceaseless  clatter  of  the  type- 
writer  might  not  add  to  the  confusion  which 
normally  prevailed  in  the  Jack-o'-Lantern. 
Thus  it  happened  that  Dorothy  was  able  to 
begin  her  long-cherished  project  of  dusting, 
rearranging,  and  cataloguing  the  books. 

There  is  a  fine  spiritual  essence  which  ex 
hales  from  the  covers  of  a  book.  Shall  one 
touch  a  copy  of  Shakespeare  with  other  than 
reverent  hands,  or  take  up  his  Boswell  with 
out  a  smile  ?  Through  the  worn  covers  and 
broken  binding  the  master-spirit  still  speaks, 
no  less  than  through  the  centuries  which  lie 
between.  The  man  who  had  the  wishing 
carpet,  upon  which  he  sat  and  wished  and 
was  thence  immediately  transported  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  was  not  possessed  of  a  finer 
magic  than  one  who  takes  his  Boswell  in  his 


300 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


Tflnclc 


ec&t'e 
S»iarg 


hands  and  then,  for  a  golden  quarter  of  an 
hour,  lives  in  a  bygone  London  with  Doctor 
Johnson. 

When  the  book-lover  enters  his  library,  no 
matter  what  storm  and  tumult  may  be  in  his 
heart,  he  has  come  to  the  inmost  chamber  of 
Peace.  The  indescribable,  musty  odour  which 
breathes  from  the  printed  page  is  fragrant  in 
cense  to  him  who  loves  his  books.  In  un 
seemly  caskets  his  treasures  may  be  hidden, 
yet,  when  the  cover  is  reverently  lifted,  the 
jewels  shine  with  no  fading  light.  The  old, 
immortal  beauty  is  still  there,  for  any  one  who 
seeks  it  in  the  right  way. 

Dorothy  had  two  willing  assistants  in  Dick 
and  Elaine.  One  morning,  immediately  after 
breakfast,  the  three  went  to  the  library  and 
locked  the  door.  Outside,  the  twins  rioted 
unheeded  and  the  perennially  joyous  Willie 
capered  unceasingly.  Mr.  Perkins,  gloomy 
and  morose,  wrote  reams  of  poetry  in  his 
own  room,  distressed  beyond  measure  by  the 
rumble  of  the  typewriter,  but  too  much  cast 
down  to  demand  that  it  be  stopped. 

Mrs.  Dodd  and  Mrs.  Holmes,  closely  united 
through  misfortune,  were  well-nigh  insepara 
ble  now,  while  Mrs.  Smithers,  still  sepulchral, 


"dncle 


Diarp 


sang  continually  in  a  loud,  cracked  voice, 
never  by  any  chance  happening  upon  the 
right  note.  As  Dorothy  said,  when  there  are 
only  eight  tones  in  the  octave,  it  would  seem 
that  sometime,  somewhere,  a  warbler  must 
coincide  for  a  brief  interval  with  the  tune, 
but  as  Dick  further  commented,  industry 
and  patience  can  do  wonders  when  rightly 
exercised. 

Uncle  Israel's  midnight  excursion  to  the 
orchard  had  given  him  a  fresh  attack  of  a 
familiar  and  distressing  ailment  to  which  he 
always  alluded  as  "the  brown  kittys."  For 
tunately,  however,  the  cure  for  asthma  and 
bronchitis  was  contained  in  the  same  quart 
bottle,  and  needed  only  to  be  heated  in 
order  to  work  upon  both  diseases  simultane 
ously. 

Elaine  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  her  white 
shirt-waist,  and  turned  in  her  collar,  thereby 
producing  an  effect  which  Dick  privately  con 
sidered  distractingly  pretty.  Dorothy  was  en 
veloped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  voluminous  blue 
gingham  apron,  and  a  dust  cap,  airily  poised 
upon  her  smooth  brown  hair,  completed  a 
most  becoming  costume.  Dick,  having  duly 
obtained  permission,  took  off  his  coat  and  put 


at  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


on  his  hat,  after  which  the  library  force  was 
ready  for  action. 

"First,"  said  Dorothy,  "we'll  take  down 
all  the  books."  It  sounded  simple,  but  it 
took  a  good  share  of  the  day  to  do  it,  and 
the  clouds  of  dust  disturbed  by  the  process 
produced  sneezes  which  put  Uncle  Israel's 
feeble  efforts  to  shame.  When  dusting  the 
shelves,  after  they  were  empty,  Elaine  came 
upon  a  panel  in  the  wall  which  slid  back. 

"Here's  a  secret  drawer!"  she  cried,  in 
wild  delight.  "How  perfectly  lovely!  Do 
you  suppose  there  's  anything  in  it?" 

Dorothy  instantly  thought  of  money  and 
diamonds,  but  the  concealed  treasure  proved 
to  be  merely  a  book.  It  was  a  respectable 
volume,  however,  at  least  as  far  as  size  was 
concerned,  for  Elaine  and  Dorothy  together 
could  scarcely  lift  it. 

It  was  a  leather-bound  ledger,  of  the  most 
ponderous  kind,  and  was  fastened  with  a  lock 
and  key.  The  key,  of  course,  was  missing, 
but  Dick  soon  pried  open  the  fastening. 

All  but  the  last  few  pages  in  the  book  were 
covered  with  fine  writing,  in  ink  which  was 
brown  and  faded,  but  still  legible.  It  was 
Uncle  Ebeneezer's  penmanship  throughout, 


TRncle  Ebeneeser's 


except  for  a  few  entries  at  the  beginning,  in 
a  fine,  flowing  feminine  hand,  which  Dorothy 
instantly  knew  was  Aunt  Rebecca's. 

"On  the  night  of  our  wedding,"  the  book 
began,  "we  begin  this  record  of  our  lives, 
for  until  to-day  we  have  not  truly  lived." 
This  was  signed  by  both.  Then,  in  the 
woman's  hand,  was  written  a  description 
of  her  wedding-gown,  which  was  a  simple 
white  muslin,  made  by  herself.  Her  orna 
ments  were  set  down  briefly — only  a  wreath 
of  roses  in  her  hair,  a  string  of  coral  beads, 
and  the  diamond  brooch  which  was  at  that 
moment  in  Dorothy's  jewel-box. 

For  three  weeks  there  were  alternate  entries, 
then  suddenly,  without  date,  were  two  words 
so  badly  written  as  to  be  scarcely  readable  : 
"She  died."  For  days  thereafter  was  only 
this  :  "  I  cannot  write."  These  simple  words 
were  the  key  to  a  world  of  pain,  for  the  pages 
were  blistered  with  a  man's  hot  tears. 

Then  came  this  :  "  She  would  want  me  to 
go  on  writing  it,  so  I  will,  though  I  have  no 
heart  for  it." 

From  thence  onward  the  book  proceeded 
without  interruption,  a  minute  and  faithful 
record  of  the  man's  inner  life.  Long  extracts 


•Record 
of  Our 


3°4 


Bt  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*3Lantern 


SHarg 


•rancic  copied  from  books  filled  page  after  page  of 
this  strange  diary,  interspersed  with  records 
of  business  transactions,  of  letters  received 
and  answered,  of  wages  paid,  and  of  the 
visits  of  Jeremiah  Bradford. 

"We  talked  long  to-night  upon  the  im 
mortality  of  the  soul,"  one  entry  ran.  "Jere 
miah  does  not  believe  it,  but  I  must — or  die." 

Dick  soon  lost  interest  in  the  book,  and 
finding  solitary  toil  at  the  shelves  uncongenial, 
went  out,  whistling.  Elaine  and  Dorothy 
read  on  together,  scarcely  noting  his  absence. 

The  book  had  begun  in  the  Spring.  Early 
in  June  was  chronicled  the  arrival  of  "a 
woman  calling  herself  Cousin  Elmira,  blood 
relation  of  my  Rebecca.  Was  not  aware 
my  Rebecca  had  a  blood  relation  named 
Elmira,  but  there  is  much  in  the  world  that  I 
do  not  know." 

According  to  the  diary,  Cousin  Elmira  had 
remained  six  weeks  and  had  greatly  distressed 
her  unwilling  host.  "  Women  are  peculiar," 
Uncle  Ebeneezer  had  written,  "all  being 
possessed  of  the  devil,  except  my  sainted 
Rebecca,  who  was  an  angel  if  there  ever 
was  one. 

"Cousin  Elmira  is  a  curious  woman.      To- 


"Clncle  Ebeneeser's  Biarg 


day  she  desired  to  know  what  had  become  of 
my  Rebecca's  wedding  garments,  her  linen 
sheets  and  table-cloths.  Answered  that  I  did 
not  know,  and  immediately  put  a  lock  upon 
the  chest  containing  them.  Have  always  been 
truthful  up  to  now,  but  Rebecca  would  not 
desire  to  have  any  blood  relation  handling  her 
sheets.  Of  this  I  am  sure. 

"Aug.  9.  To-day  came  Cousin  Silas  Mar 
tin  and  his  wife  to  spend  their  honeymoon. 
Much  grieved  to  hear  of  Rebecca's  death. 
Said  she  had  invited  them  to  spend  their 
honeymoon  with  her  when  they  married. 
Did  not  know  of  this,  but  our  happiness  was 
of  such  short  duration  that  my  Rebecca  did 
not  have  time  to  tell  me  of  all  her  wishes. 
Company  is  very  hard  to  bear,  but  I  would  do 
much  for  my  Rebecca. 

"  Aug.  10.  This  world  can  never  be  per 
fect  under  any  circumstances,  and  trials  are 
the  common  lot  of  humanity.  We  must  all 
endeavour  to  bear  up  under  affliction.  Sarah 
Smithers  is  a  good  woman,  most  faithful,  and 
does  not  talk  a  great  deal,  considering  her 
sex.  Not  intending  any  reflection  upon  my 
Rebecca,  whose  sweet  voice  I  could  never 
hear  too  often. 


•(Relations 


306 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Uncle 


"Aug.  20.  Came  Uncle  Israel  Skiles  with 
a  bad  cough.  Thinks  the  air  of  Judson 
Centre  must  be  considered  healthy  as  they  are 
to  build  a  sanitarium  here.  Did  not  know  of 
the  sanitarium. 


"Aug.  22.  Came  Cousin  Betsey  Skiles  to 
look  after  Uncle  Israel.  Uncle  Israel  not 
desiring  to  be  looked  after  has  produced  some 
disturbance  in  my  house. 


"  Aug.  23.  Cousin  Betsey  Skiles  and  Cousin 
Jane  Wood,  the  latter  arriving  unexpectedly 
this  morning,  have  fought,  and  Cousin  Jane 
has  gone  away  again.  Had  never  met  Cousin 
Jane  Wood. 

"Aug.  24.  Was  set  upon  by  Cousin  Silas 
Martin,  demanding  to  know  whether  his  wife 
was  to  be  insulted  by  Cousin  Betsey  Skiles. 
Answered  that  I  did  not  know. 

"  Aug.  25.  Was  obliged  to  settle  a  dispute 
between  Sarah  Smithers  and  Cousin  Betsey 
Skiles.  Decided  in  favour  of  S.S.,  thereby 
angering  B.  S.  Uncle  Israel  accidentally 


TUncle 


H)iars 


spilled   his   tonic   on   Cousin   Betsey's    clean 
apron.     Much  disturbance  in  my  house. 

"  Aug.  28.  Cousin  Silas  Martin  and  wife 
went  away,  telling  me  they  could  no  longer 
live  with  Cousin  Betsey  Skiles.  B.  S.  is 
unpleasant,  but  has  her  virtues. 


"  Sept.  5.  Uncle  Israel  thinks  air  of  Judson 
Centre  is  now  too  chilly  for  his  cough.  Does 
not  like  his  bed,  considering  it  drafty.  Says 
Sarah  Smithers  does  not  give  him  nourishing 
food. 


"  Sept.  8.     Uncle  Israel  has  gone. 

"Sept.  10.  Cousin  Betsey  Skiles  has  gone 
to  continue  looking  after  Uncle  Israel.  Sarah 
Smithers  and  myself  now  alone  in  peace. 

All  that  Winter,  the  writing  was  of  books, 
interspersed  with  occasional  business  details. 
In  the  Spring,  the  influx  of  blood  relations 
began  again  and  continued  until  Fall.  The 


Ht  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*3Lantern 


•Uncle 
Ebetta 
ceaer'e 


diary  revealed  the  gradual  transformation  of  a 
sunny  disposition  into  a  dark  one,  of  a  man 
with  gregarious  instincts  into  a  wild  beast 
asking  only  for  solitude.  Additions  to  the 
house  were  chronicled  from  time  to  time, 
with  now  and  then  a  pathetic  comment  upon 
the  futility  of  the  additions. 

Once  there  was  this  item:  "Would  go 
away  for  ever  were  it  not  that  this  was  my 
Rebecca's  home.  Where  we  had  hoped  to 
be  so  happy,  there  is  now  a  great  emptiness 
and  unnumbered  Relations.  How  shall  I  en 
dure  Relations  ?  Still  they  are  all  of  her  blood, 
though  the  most  gentle  blood  does  seem  to 
take  strange  turns." 

Again:  "Do  not  think  my  Rebecca  would 
desire  to  have  all  her  kin  visit  her  at  once. 
Still,  would  do  anything  for  my  Rebecca. 
Have  ordered  five  more  beds." 

As  the  years  went  by,  the  bitterness  be 
came  more  and  more  apparent.  Long  before 
the  end,  the  record  was  frankly  profane,  and 
saddest  of  all  was  the  evidence  that  under  the 
stress  of  annoyance  the  great  love  for  "my 
Rebecca  "  was  slowly,  but  surely,  becoming 
tainted.  From  simple  profanity,  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer  descended  into  blasphemous  comment, 


TUncle  Ebeneeser's  H>ian? 


3°9 


"Remorse* 

fUl    CLU- 


modified  at  times  by  remorseful  tenderness 
toward  the  dead.  Berne68 

"To-day,"  he  wrote,  "under  pressure  of 
my  questioning,  Sister-in-law  Fanny  Wood 
admitted  that  Rebecca  had  never  invited  her 
to  come  and  see  her.  Asked  Sister-in-law 
why  she  was  here.  Responded  that  Rebecca 
would  have  asked  her  if  she  had  lived.  Per 
haps  others  have  surmised  the  same.  Fear 
of  late  I  may  have  been  unjust  to  my 
Rebecca." 

Later  on,  "my  Rebecca"  was  mentioned 
but  rarely.  She  became  "  my  dear  compan 
ion,"  "my  wife,"  or  "my  partner."  The 
building  of  wings  and  the  purchase  of  ad 
ditional  beds  by  this  time  had  become  a 
permanent  feature,  though,  as  the  writer  ad 
mitted,  it  was  "a  roundabout  way." 

"  The  easiest  way  would  be  to  turn  all  out. 
Forgetting  my  duty  to  the  memory  of  my 
dear  companion,  and  sore  pressed  by  many 
annoyances,  did  turn  out  Cousin  Betsey 
Skiles,  who  forgave  me  for  it  without  being 
so  requested,  and  remained. 

"Trains  to  Judson  Centre,"  he  wrote, 
at  one  time,  "have  been  most  grievously 
changed.  One  arrives  just  after  breakfast, 


310 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%anteru 


Ebens 
eejer's 
Biar? 


the  other  at  three  in  the  morning.  Do  not 
understand  why  this  is,  and  anticipate  new 
trouble  from  it." 

The  entries  farther  on  were  full  of 
"trouble,"  being  minute  and  intimate  por 
trayals  of  the  emotions  of  one  roused  from 
sleep  at  three  in  the  morning  to  admit  unde- 
sired  guests,  interlarded  with  pardonable  pro 
fanity.  "Seems  that  house  might  be  altered 
in  some  way,  but  do  not  know.  Will  consult 
with  Jeremiah." 

After  this  came  the  record  of  an  interview 
with  the  village  carpenter,  and  rough  sketches 
of  proposed  alterations.  "Putting  in  new 
window  in  middle  and  making  two  upper 
windows  round  instead  of  square,  with  new 
porch-railing  and  two  new  narrow  windows 
downstairs  will  do  it.  House  fortunately 
planned  by  original  architect  for  such  alter 
ation.  Taking  down  curtains  and  keeping 
lights  in  windows  nights  should  have  some 
effect,  though  much  doubt  whether  anything 
would  affect  Relations." 

Soon  afterward  the  oppressed  one  chron 
icled  with  great  glee  how  a  lone  female, 
arriving  on  the  night  train,  was  found  half- 
dead  from  fright  by  the  roadside  in  the 


"dude  Ebeneeser's  Biarg  3n 

morning.     "  House  is  fearsome,"  wrote  Uncle  ircareome 
Ebeneezer,  with  evident  relish.     "Have  been 
to  Jeremiah's  of  an  evening  and,  returning, 
found  it  wonderful  to  behold." 

Presently,  Dorothy  came  to  an  intimate  an 
alysis  of  some  of  the  uninvited  ones  at  present 
under  her  roof.  The  poet  was  given  a  full 
page  of  scathing  comment,  illustrated  by  rude 
caricatures,  which  were  so  suggestive  that 
even  Elaine  thoroughly  enjoyed  them. 

Pleased  with  his  contribution  to  litera 
ture,  Uncle  Ebeneezer  had  written  a  long  and 
keenly  comprehensive  essay  upon  each  rela 
tion.  These  bits  of  vivid  portraiture  were 
numbered  in  this  way:  "Relation  Number  8, 
Miss  Betsey  Skiles,  Claiming  to  be  Cousin." 
At  the  end  of  this  series  was  a  very  beautiful 
tribute  to  "  My  Dearly  Beloved  Nephew, 
James  Harlan  Carr,  Who  Has  Never  Come  to 
See  Me." 

Frequently,  thereafter,  came  pathetic  refer 
ences  to  "  Dear  Nephew  James,"  "  Unknown 
Recipient  of  an  Old  Man's  Gratitude,"  "Dis 
cerning  and  Admirable  James,"  and  so  on. 

One  entry  ran  as  follows:  "  Have  been  ap 
proached  this  season  by  each  Relation  present 
in  regard  to  disposal  of  my  estate.  Will  fix 


3I2 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*£antern 


"Uncle 
Ebcna 
eejer'a 


surprise  for  all  Relations  before  leaving  to  join 
my  wife.  Shall  leave  money  to  every  one, 
though  perhaps  not  as  much  as  each  expects. 
Jeremiah  advises  me  to  leave  something  to 
each.  Laws  are  such,  I  believe,  that  no  one 
remembered  can  claim  more.  Desire  to  be 
just,  but  strongly  incline  to  dear  Nephew 
James." 

On  the  last  page  of  all  was  a  significant 
paragraph.  "  Dreamed  of  seeing  my  Re 
becca  once  more,  who  told  me  we  should  be 
together  again  April  7th.  Shall  make  all  ar 
rangements  for  leaving  on  that  day,  and 
prepare  Surprises  spoken  of.  Shall  be  very 
quiet  in  my  grave  with  no  Relations  at  hand, 
but  should  like  to  hear  and  see  effect  of  Sur 
prise.  Jeremiah  will  attend." 

The  last  lines  were  written  on  April  sixth. 
"To-morrow  I  shall  join  my  loved  Rebecca 
and  leave  all  Relations  here  to  fight  by  them 
selves.  Do  not  fear  Death,  but  shudder  at 
Relations.  Relations  keep  life  from  being 
pleasant.  Did  not  know  my  Rebecca  was 
possessed  of  such  numbers  nor  of  such  kinds, 
but  forgive  her  all.  Shall  see  her  to-morrow." 

Then,  on  the  line  below,  in  a  hand  that  did 
not  falter,  was  written:  "The  End." 


"ducle  Ebeneeser's  2>ain? 


3*3 


Dorothy  wiped  her  eyes  on  a  corner  of 
Elaine's  apron,  for  Uncle  Ebeneezer  had  been 
found  dead  in  his  bed  on  the  morning  of 
April  seventh.  "Elaine,"  she  said,  "what 
would  you  do  ?  " 

"Do?"  repeated  Elaine.  "I'd  strike  one 
blow  for  poor  old  Uncle  Ebeneezer!  I  'd  or 
der  every  single  one  of  them  out  of  the  house 
to-morrow!" 

"To-night!  "  cried  Dorothy,  fired  with  high 
resolve.  "I'll  do  it  this  very  night!  Poor 
old  Uncle  Ebeneezer!  Our  sufferings  have 
been  nothing,  compared  to  his." 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  Mr.  Carr?"  asked 
Elaine,  wonderingly. 

"Tell  him  nothing,"  rejoined  Dorothy,  with 
spirit.  He  's  got  some  old  fogy  notions  about 
your  house  being  a  sacred  spot  where  every 
body  in  creation  can  impose  on  you  if  they 
want  to,  just  because  it  is  your  house.  I 
suppose  he  got  it  by  being  related  to  poor  old 
uncle." 

"Do  I  have  to  go,  too?"  queried  Elaine, 
rubbing  her  soft  cheek  against  Dorothy's. 

"Not  much,"  answered  Mrs.  Carr,  with  a 
sisterly  embrace.  "You'll  stay,  and  Dick '11 
stay,  and  that  old  tombstone  in  the  kitchen 


One  Slow 


Ht  tbe 


of  tbe  3acft=o'=Xantern 


Ulncle 

Ebens 
ccjcr's 


will  stay,  and  so  will  Claudius  Tiberius,  but 
the  rest — MOVE  !  " 

Consequently,  Elaine  looked  forward  to  the 
dinner-hour  with  mixed  anticipations.  Mr. 
Perkins,  Uncle  Israel,  Mrs.  Dodd,  and  Mrs. 
Holmes  each  found  a  note  under  their  plates 
when  they  sat  down.  Uncle  Israel's  face  re 
laxed  into  an  expression  of  childlike  joy  when 
he  found  the  envelope  addressed  to  him. 
"Valentine,  I  reckon,"  he  said,  "or  mebbe 
it 's  sunthin'  from  Santa  Claus." 

"  Queer  acting  for  Santa  Claus,"  snorted 
Mrs.  Holmes,  who  had  swiftly  torn  open  her 
note.  "  Here  we  are,  all  ordered  away  from 
what 's  been  our  home  for  years,  by  some 
upstart  relations  who  never  saw  poor,  dear 
uncle.  Are  you  going  to  keep  boarders  ?  " 
she  asked,  insolently,  turning  to  Dorothy. 

"  No  longer,"  returned  that  young  woman, 
imperturbably.  "  I  have  done  it  just  as  long 
as  I  intend  to." 

Harlan  was  gazing  curiously  at  Dorothy, 
but  she  avoided  his  eyes,  and  continued  to 
eat  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Dick, 
guessing  rightly,  choked,  and  had  to  be  ex 
cused.  Elaine's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her 
eyes  sparkled,  the  flush  deepening  when  Mrs. 


IDlncle  Ebeneeser's 


315 


Dodd  inquired  where  her  valentine  was.  Mr. 
Perkins  was  openly  dejected,  and  Mrs.  Dodd, 
receiving  no  answer  to  her  question,  com 
pressed  her  thin  lips  into  a  forced  silence. 

But  Uncle  Israel  was  moved  to  protesting 
speech.  "  T  is  queer  doin's  for  Santa  Glaus," 
he  mumbled,  pouring  out  a  double  dose  of 
his  nerve  tonic.  "  T  ain't  such  a  thing  as 
he  'd  do,  even  if  he  was  drunk.  Turnin'  a 
poor  old  man  outdoor,  what  ain't  got  no 
place  to  go  exceptin'  to  Betsey's,  an'  nobody 
can't  live  with  Betsey.  She  's  all  the  time 
mad  at  herself  on  account  of  bein'  obliged  to 
live  with  such  a  woman  as  she  be.  Sum 
mers  I  've  allers  stayed  here  an'  never  made 
no  trouble.  I  've  cooked  my  own  food  an' 
brought  most  of  it,  an'  provided  all  my  own 
medicines,  an'  even  took  my  bed  with  me, 
goin'  an'  comin'.  Ebeneezer's  beds  is  all  ter 
rible  drafty — I  took  two  colds  to  once  sleepin' 
in  one  of  'em — an'  at  my  time  of  life  't  ain't 
proper  to  change  beds.  Sleepin'  in  a  drafty 
bed  would  undo  all  the  good  of  bein'  near 
the  sanitarium.  Most  likely  I  '11  have  a  fever 
or  sunthin'  now  an'  die." 

"Shut  up,  Israel,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  ab 
ruptly.  "  You  ain't  goin'  to  die.  It  would  n't 


Queer 

Dotiujs 

for  Santa 

Clans 


316 


at  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*%antern 


•Uncle 
£ben* 
eejer'a 


surprise  me  none  if  you  had  to  be  shot  on  the 
Day  of  Judgment  before  you  could  be  resur 
rected.  Folks  past  ninety-five  that 's  pickled 
in  patent  medicine  from  the  inside  out,  ain't 
goin'  to  die  of  no  fever." 

"Ninety-six,  Belinda,"  said  the  old  man, 
proudly.  "  1  '11  be  ninety-six  next  week,  an' 
I  'm  as  young  as  I  ever  was." 

"  Then,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Dodd,  tartly,  "what 
you  want  to  look  out  for  is  measles  an' 
chicken-pox,  to  say  nothin'  of  croup." 

"Come,  Gladys  Gwendolen  and  Algernon 
Paul,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Holmes,  in  a  high 
key;  "we  must  go  and  pack  now,  to  go 
away  from  dear  uncle's.  Dear  uncle  is  dead, 
you  know,  and  can't  help  his  dear  ones  being 
ordered  out  of  his  house  by  upstarts." 

"  What 's  a  upstart,  ma  ?"  inquired  Willie. 

"  People  who  turn  their  dead  uncle's  rela 
tions  out  of  his  house  in  order  to  take  board 
ers,"  returned  Mrs.  Holmes,  clearly. 

"Mis'  Carr,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  sliding  up 
into  Dick's  vacant  place,  "  have  I  under 
stood  that  you  want  me  to  go  away  to 
morrow?" 

"Everybody  is  going  away  to-morrow," 
returned  Dorothy,  coldly. 


TUncle  Ebeneeser's 


317 


"After  all  I  've  done  for  you?"  persisted 
Mrs.  Dodd. 

"What  have  you  done  for  me?"  parried 
Dorothy,  with  a  pleading  look  at  Elaine. 

"Kep'  the  others  away,"  returned  Mrs. 
Dodd,  significantly. 

"Uncle  Ebeneezer  does  not  want  any  of 
you  here,"  said  Dorothy,  after  a  painful 
silence.  The  impression  made  by  the  diary 
was  so  vividly  present  with  her  that  she 
felt  as  though  she  were  delivering  an  actual 
message. 

Much  to  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Dodd  paled  and 
left  the  room  hastily.  Uncle  Israel  tottered 
after  her,  leaving  his  predigested  food  un 
touched  on  his  plate  and  his  imitation  coffee 
steaming  malodorously  in  his  cup.  Mr.  Per 
kins  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  for  a 
moment;  then,  with  a  sigh,  lightly  dropped 
out  of  the  open  window.  The  name  of  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  seemed  to  be  one  to  conjure  with. 

"Dorothy,"  said  Harlan,  "might  an  obedi 
ent  husband  modestly  inquire  what  you  have 
done  ?  " 

"Elaine  and  I  found  Uncle  Ebeneezer's 
diary  to-day,"  explained  Dorothy,  "and  the 
poor  old  soul  was  nagged  all  his  life  by 


H  flame 

to  Conjure 

TOUtb 


Bt  tbe  Stan  of  tbe 


Uncle 
JEbens 
ecjcr's 
JDiar? 


relatives.  So,  in  gratitude  for  what  he  's 
done  for  us,  I  've  turned  'em  out.  I  know 
he  'd  like  to  have  me  do  it." 

Harlan  left  his  place  and  came  to  Dorothy, 
where,  bending  over  her  chair,  he  kissed  her 
tenderly.  "Good  girl,"  he  said,  patting  her 
shoulder.  "Why  in  thunder  didn't  you  do 
it  months  ago?" 

"  Is  n't  that  just  like  a  man  ?"  asked  Doro 
thy,  gazing  after  his  retreating  figure. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Elaine,  with  a 
pretty  blush,"  but  I  guess  it  is." 


XIX 

\Dariou0  Departures 

"  A  LGERNON  PAUL,"  called  Mrs.  Holmes, 
/~V  shrilly,  "let  the  kitty  alone  !" 

Every  one  else  on  the  premises  heard  the 
command,  but  "Algernon  Paul,"  perhaps  be 
cause  he  was  not  yet  fully  accustomed  to 
his  new  name,  continued  forcing  Claudius 
Tiberius  to  walk  about  on  his  fore  feet,  the 
rest  of  him  being  held  uncomfortably  in  the 
air  by  the  guiding  influence. 

"  Algernon  !  "  The  voice  was  so  close 
this  time  that  the  cat  was  freed  by  his  perse 
cutor's  violent  start.  Seeing  that  it  was  only 
his  mother,  Algernon  Paul  attempted  to  re 
cover  his  treasure  again,  and  was  badly 
scratched  by  that  selfsame  treasure.  Where 
upon  Mrs.  Holmes  soundly  cuffed  Claudius 
Tiberius  "  for  scratching  dear  little  Ebbie,  I 
mean  Algernon  Paul,"  and  received  a  bite  or 
two  on  her  own  account. 


319 


©nig  tils 
flDotbcr 


320 


Ht  tbe  Sion  ot  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Various 

Departs 
urcs 


"Come,  Ebbie,  dear,"  she  continued,  "we 
are  going  now.  We  have  been  driven  away 
from  dear  uncle's.  Where  is  sister  ?" 

"Sister"  was  discovered  in  the  forbidden 
Paradise  of  the  chicken-coop,  and  dragged 
out,  howling.  Willie,  not  desiring  to  leave 
"dear  uncle's,"  was  forcibly  retrieved  by  Dick 
from  the  roof  of  the  barn. 

Mr.  Harold  Vernon  Perkins  had  silently 
disappeared  in  the  night,  but  no  one  feared 
foul  play.  "He'll  be  waitin'  at  the  train,  I 
reckon,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  "an'  most  likely 
composin'  a  poem  on  '  Departure '  or  else 
breathin'  into  a  tube  to  see  if  he  's  mad." 

She  had  taken  her  dismissal  very  calmly 
after  the  first  shock.  "A  woman  what's 
been  married  seven  times,  same  as  I  be,"  she 
explained  to  Dorothy,  "gets  used  to  bein' 
moved  around  from  place  to  place.  My  sixth 
husband  had  the  movin'  habit  terrible.  No 
sooner  would  we  get  settled  nice  an'  com 
fortable  in  a  place,  an' I  got  enough  acquainted  to 
borrow  sugar  an'  tea  an'  molasses  from  my  new 
neighbours,than  Thomas  would  decide  to  move, 
an'  more  'n  likely,  it  'd  be  to  some  new  town 
where  there  was  a  great  openin'  in  some  new 
business  that  he  'd  never  tried  his  hand  at  yet. 


IDartous  departures 


321 


"My  dear,  I've  been  the  wife  of  a  under 
taker,  a  livery-stable  keeper,  a  patent  medi 
cine  man,  a  grocer,  a  butcher,  a  farmer,  an'  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  all  in  one  an'  the  same 
marriage.  Seems  's  if  there  wa'n't  no  business 
Thomas  could  n't  feel  to  turn  his  hand  to,  an' 
he  knowed  how  they  all  ought  to  be  run.  If 
anybody  was  makin'  a  failure  of  anythin', 
Thomas  knowed  just  why  it  was  failin'  an'  I 
must  say  he  ought  to  know,  too,  for  I  never 
see  no  more  steady  failer  than  Thomas. 

"They  say  a  rollin'  stone  never  gets  no 
moss  on  it,  but  it  gets  worn  terrible  smooth, 
an'  by  the  time  I  'd  moved  to  eight  or  ten  dif 
ferent  towns  an'  got  as  many  as  'leven  houses 
all  fixed  up,  the  corners  was  all  broke  off'  n 
me  as  well  as  off  'n  the  furniture.  My  third 
husband  left  me  well  provided  with  furniture, 
but  when  I  went  to  my  seventh  altar,  I  did  n't 
have  nothin'  left  but  a  soap  box  an'  half  a 
red  blanket,  on  account  of  havin'  moved 
around  so  much. 

"  I  got  so  's  I  'd  never  unpack  all  the  things 
in  any  one  place,  but  keep  'em  in  their  dry- 
goods  boxes  an'  barrels  nice  an'  handy  to  go 
on  again.  When  the  movin'  fit  come  on 
Thomas,  I  was  always  in  such  light  marchin' 


HH  I  n 

®ne 

/Carriage 


322 


Ht  tbe 


of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Darious 
Beparte 

urcs 


order  that  I  could  go  on  a  day's  notice,  an' 
that 's  the  way  we  usually  went.  I  told  him 
once  it  'd  be  easier  an'  cheaper  to  fit  up  a 
prairie  schooner  such  as  they  used  to  cross  the 
plains  in,  an'  then  when  we  wanted  to  move, 
all  we  'd  have  to  do  would  be  to  put  a  dipper  of 
water  on  the  fire  an'  tell  the  mules  to  get  ap, 
but  it  riled  him  so  terrible  that  I  never  said 
nothin'  about  it  again,  though  all  through  my 
sixth  marriage,  it  seemed  a  dretful  likely 
notion. 

"A  woman  with  much  marryin'  experience 
soon  learns  not  to  rile  a  husband  when  't  ain't 
necessary.  Sometimes  I  think  the  poor  cree- 
ters  has  enough  to  contend  with  outside  with 
out  bein'  obliged  to  fight  at  home,  though  it 
does  beat  all,  my  dear,  what  a  terrible  ex 
ertion  't  is  for  most  men  to  earn  a  livin'.  None 
of  my  husbands  was  ever  obliged  to  fight  at 
home  an'  I  take  great  comfort  thinkin'  how 
peaceful  they  all  was  when  they  was  livin' 
with  me,  an'  how  peaceful  they  all  be  now, 

m 

though  I  think  it 's  more  'n  likely  that  Thomas 
is  a-sufferin'  because  he  can't  move  no  more 
at  present." 

Her  monologue  was  interrupted  by  the  ar 
rival  of  the  stage,  which  Harlan  had  gladly  or- 


Uarious  ^Departures 


323 


dered.  Mrs.  Holmes  and  the  children  climbed 
into  it  without  vouchsafing  a  word  to  any 
body,  but  Mrs.  Dodd  shook  hands  all  around 
and  would  have  kissed  both  Dorothy  and 
Elaine  had  they  not  dodged  the  caress. 

"  Remember,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd  to 
Dorothy  ;  "  I  don't  bear  you  no  grudge, 
though  I  never  was  turned  out  of  no  place 
before.  It's  all  in  a  lifetime,  the  same  as 
marryin',  and  if  I  should  ever  marry  again  an' 
have  a  home  of  my  own  to  invite  you  to,  you 
an'  your  husband  '11  be  welcome  to  come  and 
stay  with  me  as  long  as  I  've  stayed  with  you, 
or  longer,  if  you  felt  't  was  pleasant,  an'  I  'd 
try  to  make  it  so." 

The  kindly  speech  made  Dorothy  very 
much  ashamed  of  herself,  though  she  did  not 
know  exactly  why,  and  Gladys  Gwendolen, 
with  a  cherubic  smile,  leaned  out  of  the  stage 
window  and  waved  a  chubby  hand,  saying: 
"Bye  bye!"  Mrs.  Holmes  alone  seemed 
hard  and  unforgiving,  as  she  sat  sternly  up 
right,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 

"Rather  unusual,  isn't  it?"  whispered 
Elaine,  as  the  ponderous  vehicle  turned  into 
the  yard,  "  to  see  so  many  of  one's  friends 
going  on  the  stage  at  once  ?" 


BU  fn  a 

lifetime 


324 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*3lantern 


Various 

Z>epart» 

uree 


"Not  at  all,"  chuckled  Dick.  "  Everybody 
goes  on  the  stage  when  they  leave  the 
Carrs." 

"Good  bye,  Belinda,"  yelled  Uncle  Israel, 
putting  his  flannel  bandaged  head  out  of  one 
of  the  round  upper  windows.  He  had  climbed 
up  on  a  chair  to  do  it.  "  I  don't  reckon  I  '11 
ever  hear  from  you  again  exceptin'  where 
Lazarus  heard  from  the  rich  man! " 

"Don't  let  that  trouble  you,  Israel," 
shrieked  Mrs.  Dodd,  piercingly.  "I  take  it 
the  rich  man  was  diggin'  for  eight  cents  in 
Satan's  orchard,  an'  did  n't  have  no  time  to 
look  up  his  friends." 

The  rejoinder  seemed  not  to  affect  Uncle 
Israel,  but  it  sent  Dick  into  a  spasm  of  merri 
ment  from  which  he  recovered  only  when 
Harlan  pounded  him  on  the  back. 

"Come  on,"  said  Harlan,  "it's  not  time  to 
laugh  yet.  We  've  got  to  pack  Uncle  Israel's 
bed." 

Uncle  Israel  was  going  on  the  afternoon 
train,  and  in  another  direction.  He  sat  on  his 
trunk  and  issued  minute  instructions,  occa 
sionally  having  the  whole  thing  taken  apart 
to  be  put  together  in  a  different  kind  of  a  par 
cel.  As  an  especial  favour,  Dick  was  allowed 


IDarious  Departures  325 


to  crate  the  bath  cabinet,  though  as  a  rule,  no     "smart 

1Rela» 

profane  hands  were  permitted  to  touch  this      ttone- 
instrument   of  health.     Uncle   Israel  himself 
arranged  his  bottles,  and  boxes,  and  powders; 
a  hand-satchel  containing  his   medicines  for 
the  journey  and  the  night. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said,  "if  I  take  a  double 
dose  of  my  pain-killer,  this  noon,  an'  a  double 
dose  of  my  nerve  tonic  just  before  I  get  on  the 
cars,  I  c'n  get  along  with  these  few  remedies 
till  I  get  to  Betsey's,  where  I  'II  have  to  take  a 
full  course  of  treatment  to  pay  for  all  this 
travellin'.  The  pain-killer  bottle  an'  the  nerve 
tonic  bottle  is  both  dretful  heavy,  in  spite  of 
bein'  only  half  full." 

"How  would  it  do,"  suggested  Harlan, 
kindly,  "  to  pour  the  nerve  tonic  into  the  pain 
killer,  and  then  you  'd  have  only  one  bottle  to 
carry.  You  mix  them  inside,  anyway." 

"  You  seem  real  intelligent,  nephew," 
quavered  Uncle  Israel.  "I  never  knowed  I 
had  no  such  smart  relations.  As  you  say,  I 
mix  'em  in  my  system  anyway,  an'  it  can't 
do  no  harm  to  do  it  in  the  bottle  first." 

No  sooner  said  than  done,  but,  strangely 
enough,  the  mixture  turned  a  vivid  emerald 
green,  and  had  such  a  peculiarly  vile  odour 


326 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe 


Various 
Departs 

urcs 


that  even  Uncle  Israel  refused  to  have  any 
thing  further  to  do  with  it. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  but  what  you'd  done 
me  a  real  service,  nephew,"  continued  Uncle 
Israel.  "Here  I've  been  takin'  this,  month 
after  month,  an'  never  suspectin'  what  it  was 
doin'  in  my  insides.  I  've  suspicioned  for 
some  time  that  the  pain-killer  wan't  doin'  me 
no  good,  an'  I've  been  goin'  to  try  Doctor 
Jones's  Squaw  Remedy,  anyhow.  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  my  whole  insides  was  green  instead 
of  red  as  they  orter  be.  The  next  time  I  go  to 
the  City,  I  'm  goin'  to  take  this  here  compound 
to  the  healin'  emporium  where  I  bought  it,  an' 
ask  'em  what  there  is  in  it  that  paints  folk's 
insides.  T  ain't  nothin'  more  'n  green  paint." 

The  patient  was  so  interested  in  this  new 
development  that  he  demanded  a  paint-brush 
and  experimented  on  the  porch  railing,  where 
it  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  "green  paint."  In 
getting  a  nearer  view,  he  touched  hisfiose  to 
it  and  acquired  a  bright  green  spot  on  the  tip 
of  that  highly  useful  organ.  Desiring  to  test 
it  by  every  sense,  he  next  put  his  ear  down  to 
the  railing,  as  though  he  expected  to  hear  the 
elements  of  the  compound  rushing  together 
explosively. 


IDarious  Departures 


"My   hearin'  is  bad,"  he   explained.      " 

J  1nail>e0 

wish  you  'd  listen  to  this  here  a  minute  or 
two,  nephew,  an'  see  if  you  don't  hear 
sunthin' ."  But  Harlan,  with  his  handkerchief 
pressed  tightly  to  his  nose,  politely  declined. 

"I  don't  feel,"  continued  Uncle  Israel,  tot 
tering  into  the  house,  "  as  though  a  poor, 
sick  man  with  green  insides  instead  of  red 
orter  be  turned  out.  Judson  Centre  is  a  terri 
ble  healthy  place,  or  the  sanitarium  would  n't 
have  been  built  here,  an'  travellin'  on  the  cars 
would  shake  me  up  considerable.  I  feel  as 
though  I  was  goin'  to  be  took  bad,  an'  as  if  I 
ought  not  to  go.  If  somebody'll  set  up  my  bed, 
I  '11  just  lay  down  on  it  an'  die  now.  Ebeneezer 
would  be  willin'  for  me  to  die  in  his  house,  I 
know,  for  he  's  often  said  it  'd  be  a  reel 
pleasure  to  him  to  pay  my  funeral  expenses 
if  I  c  'd  only  make  up  my  mind  to  claim  'em, 
an',  "  went  on  the  old  man  pitifully,  "  I  feel  to 
claim  'em  now.  Set  up  my  bed, "  he  wheezed, 
"an'  let  me  die.  I  'm  bein'  took  bad." 

He  was  swiftly  reasoning  himself  into  ab 
ject  helplessness  when  Dick  came  valiantly  to 
the  rescue.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,  Uncle  Israel, 
he  said,  "if  you're  going  to  be  sick,  and  of 
course  you  know  whether  you  are  or  not, 


328 


at  tbe  Sian  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Various 

Bcparts 
urcs 


we  '11  just  get  a  carriage  and  take  you  over  to 
the  sanitarium.  I  '11  pay  your  board  there  for 
a  week,  myself,  and  by  that  time  we  '11  know 
just  what's  the  matter  with  you." 

The  patient  brightened  amazingly  at  the 
mention  of  the  sanitarium,  and  was  more 
than  willing  to  go.  "  I  've  took  all  kinds  of 
treatment,"  he  creaked,  "but  I  ain't  never 
been  to  no  sanitarium,  an'  I  misdoubt  whether 
they  've  ever  had  anybody  with  green  insides. 

"I  reckon,"  he  added,  proudly,  "that  that 
wanderin'  pain  in  my  spine  '11  stump  'em  some 
to  know  what  it  is.  Even  in  the  big  store 
where  they  keep  all  kinds  of  medicines,  there 
could  n't  nobody  tell  me.  I  know  what  disease 
't  is,  but  I  won't  tell  nobody.  A  man  knows 
his  own  system  best  an'  I  reckon  them  smart 
doctors  up  at  the  sanitarium  '11  be  scratchin' 
their  heads  over  such  a  complicated  case  as  I 
be.  Send  my  bed  on  to  Betsey's  but  write 
on  it  that  it  ain  't  to  be  set  up  till  I  come. 
T  would  n't  be  worth  while  settin'  it  up  at 
the  sanitarium  for  a  week,  an'  I  'm  minded  to 
try  a  medical  bed,  anyways.  I  ain  't  never 
had  none.  Get  the  carriage,  quick,  for  I  feel 
an  ailment  comin'  on  me  powerful  hard  every 
minute." 


IDarious  Departures 


"Suppose,"  said  Harlan,  in  a  swift  aside, 
"  that  they  refuse  to  take  the  patient  ?  What 
shall  we  do  then  ?" 

"We  won't  discuss  that,"  answered  Dick, 
in  a  low  tone.  "My  plan  is  to  leave  the  pa 
tient,  drive  away  swiftly,  and,  an  hour  or  so 
later,  walk  back  and  settle  with  the  head  of 
the  repair  shop  for  a  week's  mending  in 
advance." 

Harlan  laughed  gleefully,  at  which  Uncle 
Israel  pricked  up  his  ears.  "I'm  in  on  the 
bill,"  he  continued;  "  we'll  go  halves  on  the 
mending." 

"Laughin"'  said  Uncle    Israel,    scornfully, 
"at  your  poor  old  uncle  what  ain't  goin'  to 
live   much    longer.     If  your   insides  was   all 
turned   green,  you    would  n't   be   laughin'- 
you  'd  be  thinkin'  about  your  immortal  souls." 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  the  bed  was 
finally  dumped  on  the  side  track  to  await  the 
arrival  of  the  freight  train,  being  securely  cov 
ered  with  a  canvas  tarpaulin  to  keep  it  from 
the  night  dew  and  stray,  malicious  germs, 
seeking  that  which  they  might  devour.  Uncle 
Israel  insisted  upon  overseeing  this  job  him 
self,  so  that  he  did  not  reach  the  sanitarium 
until  almost  nightfall.  Dick  and  Harlan  were 


329 


tie  plan 


330         at  tbe  Stan  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 

Carious      driving,  and  they  shamelessly  left  the  patient 

)cpart= 

urea  at  the  door  of  the  Temple  of  Healing,  with  his 
crated  bath  cabinet,  his  few  personal  belong 
ings,  and  his  medicines. 

Turning  back  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  they 
saw  that  the  wanderer  had  been  taken  in, 
though  the  bath  cabinet  still  remained  outside. 

"Mean  trick  to  play  on  a  respectable  insti 
tution,"  observed  Dick,  lashing  the  horses  into 
a  gallop,  "but  I  '11  go  over  in  the  morning  and 
square  it  with  'em." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  volunteered  Harlan. 
"  It 's  just  as  well  to  have  two  of  us,  for  we 
won't  be  popular.  The  survivor  can  take 
back  the  farewell  message  to  the  wife  and 
family  of  the  other." 

He  meant  it  for  a  jest,  but  even  in  the  gather 
ing  darkness,  he  could  see  the  dull  red  mount 
ing  to  Dick's  temples.  "I'll  be  darned," 
thought  Harlan,  seeing  the  whole  situation 
instantly.  Then,  moved  by  a  brotherly  im 
pulse,  he  said,  cheerfully:  "Go  in  and  win, 
old  man.  Good  luck  to  you!  " 

"Thanks,"  muttered  Dick,  huskily,  "but  it 's 
no  use.  She  won't  look  at  me.  She  wants 
a  nice  lady-like  poet,  that's  what  she  wants." 

"No,  she  doesn't,"  returned  Harlan,  with 


Darious  Departures 


331 


deep  conviction.  "  I  don't  claim  to  be  a  spe 
cialist,  but  when  a  man  and  a  poet  are  entered 
for  the  matrimonial  handicap,  1  '11  put  my 
money  on  the  man,  every  time." 

Dick  swiftly  changed  the  subject,  and  began 
to  speculate  on  probable  happenings  at  the 
sanitarium.  They  left  the  conveyance  in  the 
village,  from  whence  it  had  been  taken,  and 
walked  uphill. 

Lights  gleamed  from  every  window  of  the 
Jack-o'-Lantern,  but  the  eccentric  face  of  the 
house  had,  for  the  first  time,  a  friendly  aspect. 
Warmth  and  cheer  were  in  the  blinking  eyes 
and  the  grinning  mouth,  though,  as  Dick  said, 
it  seemed  impossible  that  "no  pumpkin  seeds 
were  left  inside." 

Those  who  do  not  believe  in  personal  influ 
ence  should  go  into  a  house  which  uninvited 
and  undesired  guests  have  regretfully  left. 
Every  alien  element  had  gone  from  the  house 
on  the  hill,  yet  the  very  walls  were  still  vocal 
with  discord.  One  expected,  every  moment, 
to  hear  Uncle  Israel's  wheeze,  the  shrill,  spite 
ful  comment  of  Mrs.  Holmes,  or  a  howl  from 
one  of  the  twins. 

"What  shall  we  do,"  asked  Harlan,  "to 
celebrate  the  day  of  emancipation  ?" 


b«  Dag 
of  Eman= 
citation 


332         Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acft*o'*%antern 

it>ar(ou8          "  I  know,"  answered  Dorothy,  with  a  little 

S>cpart» 

Urc8        laugh.     "  We  '11  burn  a  bed." 

"Whose  bed?"  queried  Dick. 

"Mr.  Perkins's  bed,"  responded  Elaine, 
readily.  The  tone  of  her  voice  sent  a  warm 
glow  to  Dick's  heart,  and  he  went  to  work  at 
the  heavy  walnut  structure  with  more  gladness 
than  exercise  of  that  particular  kind  had  ever 
given  him  before. 

Harlan  rummaged  through  the  cellar  and 
found  a  bottle  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  old  port, 
which,  for  some  occult  reason,  had  hitherto 
escaped.  Mrs.  Smithers,  moved  to  joyful 
song,  did  herself  proud  in  the  matter  of  fried 
chicken  and  flaky  biscuit.  Dorothy  had  taken 
all  the  leaves  out  of  the  table,  so  that  now  it 
was  cosily  set  for  four,  and  placed  a  battered 
old  brass  candlestick,  with  a  tallow  candle  in 
it,  in  the  centre. 

"Seems  like  living,  doesn't  it?"  asked 
Harlan.  Until  now,  he  had  not  known  how 
surely  though  secretly  distressed  he  had  been 
by  Aunt  Rebecca's  persistent  kin.  Claudius 
Tiberius  apparently  felt  the  prevailing  cheer 
fulness,  and  purred  vigorously,  in  Elaine's  lap. 

Afterward,  they  made  a  fire  in  the  parlour, 
even  though  the  night  was  so  warm  that  they 


Various  Departures  333 


were  obliged  to  have  all  the  windows  open,      t>te<3fft 
and,  inspired  by  the  portrait  of  Uncle  Eben- 
eezer,  discussed  the  peculiarities  of  his  self- 
invited  guests. 

The  sacrificial  flame  arising  from  the  poet's 
bed  directed  the  conversation  to  Mr.  Perkins 
and  his  gift  of  song.  Dick,  though  feeling 
more  deeply  upon  the  subject  than  any  of  the 
rest,  was  wise  enough  not  to  say  too  much. 

"I  found  something  under  his  mattress," 
remarked  Dick,  when  the  conversation  flagged, 
"while  I  was  taking  his  blooming  crib  apart 
to  chop  it  up.  I  guess  it  must  be  a  poem." 

He  drew  a  sorely  flattened  roll  from  his 
pocket,  and  slipped  off  the  crumpled  blue 
ribbon.  It  was,  indeed,  a  poem,  entitled 
"  Farewell." 

"I  thought  he  might  have  been  polite 
enough  to  say  good  bye,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  Perhaps  it  was  easier  to  write  it." 

"Read  it,"  cried  Elaine,  her  eyes  dancing. 
"  Please  do!" 

So  Dick  read  as  follows : 


All  happy  times  must  reach  an  end 
Sometime,  someday,  somewhere, 

A  great  soul  seldom  has  a  friend 
Anyway  or  anywhere. 


334 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*»Xantern 


Various 
Depart* 

arcs 


But  one  devoted  to  the  Ideal 

Must  pass  these  things  all  by, 
His  eyes  fixed  ever  on  his  Art, 

Which  lives,  though  he  must  die. 

Amid  the  tide  of  cruel  greed 

Which  laps  upon  our  shore, 
No  one  takes  thought  of  the  poet's  need 

Nor  how  his  griefs  may  pour 
Upon  his  poor,  devoted  head 

And  his  sad,  troubled  heart; 
But  all  these  things  each  one  must  take, 

Who  gives  his  life  to  Art. 

His  crust  of  bread,  his  tick  of  straw, 

His  enemies  deny, 
And  at  the  last  his  patron  saint 

Will  even  pass  him  by; 
The  wide  world  is  his  resting  place, 

All  o  'er  it  he  may  roam, 
And  none  will  take  the  poet  in, 

Or  offer  him  a  home. 

The  tears  of  sorrow  blind  him  now, 

Misunderstood  is  he, 
But  thus  great  souls  have  always  been, 

And  always  they  will  be; 
His  eyes  fixed  ever  on  the  Ideal 

Will  be  there  till  he  die, 
To-night  he  goes,  but  leaves  a  poem 

To  say  good  bye,  good  bye! 

"Poor  Mr.  Perkins,"  commented  Dorothy, 
softly. 

"Yes,"  mimicked  Harlan,  "poor  Mr.  Per 
kins.  I  don't  see  but  what  he  '11  have  to  work 


Darious  departures 


now,  like  any  plain,  ordinary  mortal,  with  no 
'gift'." 

"What  is  the  Ideal,  anyway?"  queried 
Elaine,  looking  thoughtfully  into  the  embers 
of  the  poet's  bedstead. 

"That's  easy,"  answered  Dick,  not  with 
out  evident  feeling.  "It's  whatever  Mr. 
Perkins  happens  to  be  doing,  or  trying  to  do. 
He  fixes  it  for  the  rest  of  us.  " 

"I  think,"  suggested  Dorothy,  after  a  mo 
mentary  silence,  "that  the  Ideal  consists  in 
minding  your  own  business  and  gently,  but 
firmly,  assisting  others  to  mind  theirs." 

All  unknowingly,  Dorothy  had  expressed 
the  dominant  idea  of  the  dead  master  of  the 
house.  She  fancied  that  the  pictured  face 
over  the  mantel  was  about  to  smile  at  her. 
Dorothy  and  Uncle  Ebeneezer  understood  each 
other  now,  and  she  no  longer  wished  to  have 
the  portrait  moved. 

Before  they  separated  for  the  night,  Dick 
told  them  all  about  the  midnight  gathering  in 
the  orchard,  which  he  had  witnessed  from 
afar,  and  which  the  others  enjoyed  beyond  his 
expectations. 

"That's  what  uncle  meant,"  said  Elaine, 
"by  'fixing  a  surprise  for  relations.'  " 


336 


Ht  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


Various 
2>epart« 

urea 


"I  don't  blame  him,"  observed  Harlan, 
"not  a  blooming  bit.  I  wish  the  poor  old 
duck  could  have  been  here  to  see  it.  Why 
wasn't  I  in  on  it?"  he  demanded  of  Dick, 
somewhat  resentfully.  "When  anything  like 
that  was  going  on,  why  did  n't  you  take  me 
in?" 

"It  wasn't  for  me  to  interfere  with  his 
doings,"  protested  Dick,  "but  I  do  wish  you 
could  have  seen  Uncle  Israel." 

At  the  recollection  he  went  off  into  a  spasm 
of  merriment  which  bid  fair  to  prove  fatal. 
The  rest  laughed  with  him,  not  knowing  just 
what  it  was  about,  such  was  the  infectious 
quality  of  Dick's  mirth. 

"They've  all  gone,"  laughed  Elaine,  hap 
pily,  taking  her  bedroom  candle  from  Doro 
thy's  hand,  "they've  all  gone,  every  single 
one,  and  now  we  're  going  to  have  some  good 
times." 

Dick  watched  her  as  she  went  up-stairs,  the 
candlelight  shining  tenderly  upon  her  sweet 
face,  and  thus  betrayed  himself  to  Dorothy, 
who  had  suspected  for  some  time  that  he 
loved  Elaine. 

"Oh  Lord!"  grumbled  Dick  to  himself, 
when  he  was  safely  in  his  own  room. 


Various  Departures 


337 


"  Everybody  knows  it  now,  except  her.  I  '11 
bet  even  Sis  Smithers  and  the  cat  are  dead 
next  to  me.  I  might  as  well  tell  her  to-mor 
row  as  any  time,  the  result  will  be  just  the 
same.  Better  do  it  and  have  it  over  with. 
The  cat  '11  tell  her  if  nobody  else  does." 

But  that  night,  strangely  enough,  Claudius 
Tiberius  disappeared,  to  be  seen  or  heard  of 
no  more. 


ClauMua 
til  be  Hue 


338 


XX 

llove  of  Enotber  Elaine 

WHEN  Dick  and  Harlan  ventured  up  to 
the  sanitarium,  they  were  confronted 
by  the  astonishing  fact  that  Uncle  Israel  was, 
indeed,  ill.  Later  developements  proved  that 
he  was  in  a  measure  personally  responsible 
for  his  condition,  since  he  had,  surreptitiously, 
in  the  night,  mixed  two  or  three  medicines  of 
his  own  brewing  with  the  liberal  dose  of  a 
different  drug  which  the  night  nurse  gave  him, 
in  accordance  with  her  instructions. 

Far  from  being  unconscious,  however, 
Uncle  Israel  was  even  now  raging  violently 
against  further  restraint,  and  demanding  to  be 
sent  home  before  he  was  "murdered." 

"He's  being  killed  with  kindness,"  whis 
pered  Dick,  "like  the  man  who  was  run  over 
by  an  ambulance." 

Harlan  arranged  for  Uncle  Israel  to  stay 
until  he  was  quite  healed  of  this  last  compli- 


Ube  Xope  ot  Hnotber  Btaine 


cation,  and  then  wrote  out  the  address  of 
Cousin  Betsey  Skiles,  with  which  Dick  was 
fortunately  familiar.  "  And,"  added  Dick,  "  if 
he  's  troublesome,  crate  him  and  send  him  by 
freight.  We  don't  want  to  see  him  again." 

Less  than  a  week  later,  Uncle  Israel  and  his 
bed  were  safely  installed  at  Cousin  Betsey's, 
and  he  was  able  to  write  twelve  pages  of 
foolscap,  fully  expressing  his  opinion  of  Har- 
lan  and  Dick  and  the  sanitarium  staff,  and 
Uncle  Ebeneezer,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
general,  conveying  it  by  registered  mail  to 
"J.  H.  Car  &  Familey."  The  composition 
revealed  an  astonishing  command  of  English, 
particularly  in  the  way  of  vituperation.  Had 
Uncle  Israel  known  more  profanity,  he  un 
doubtedly  would  have  incorporated  it  in  the 
text. 

"It  reminds  me,"  said  Elaine,  who  was 
permitted  to  read  it,  "of  a  little  coloured  boy 
we  used  to  know.  A  playmate  quarrelled 
with  him  and  began  to  call  him  names,  using 
all  the  big  words  he  had  ever  heard,  regardless 
of  their  meaning.  When  his  vocabulary  was 
exhausted,  our  little  friend  asked,  quietly:  "  Is 
you  froo?'  'Yes,  returned  the  other,  Ts 
froo.'  'Well  then,'  said  the  master  of  the 


340 


Bt  tbe  St0n  of  tbe  5acft*o'*%autern 


Ube  %ovc 

of 
Bnotber 

Elaine 


situation,  calmly,  turning  on  his  heel,  '  all 
those  things  what  you  called  me,  you  is.' " 

"  That's  right,"  laughed  Dick.  "  All  those 
things  Uncle  Israel  has  called  us,  he  is,  but  it 
makes  him  a  pretty  tough  old  customer." 

A  blessed  peace  had  descended  upon  the 
house  and  its  occupants.  Harlan's  work  was 
swiftly  nearing  completion,  and  in  another 
day  or  two,  he  would  be  ready  to  read  the 
neatly  typed  pages  to  the  members  of  his 
household.  Dorothy  could  scarcely  wait  to 
hear  it,  and  stole  many  a  secret  glance  at  the 
manuscript  when  Harlan  was  out  of  the  house. 
Lover-like,  she  expected  great  things  from  it, 
and  she  saw  the  world  of  readers,  literally,  at 
her  husband's  feet.  So  great  was  her  faith  in 
him  that  she  never  for  an  instant  suspected 
that  there  might  possibly  be  difficulty  at  the 
start — that  any  publisher  could  be  wary  of 
this  masterpiece  by  an  unknown. 

The  Carrs  had  planned  to  remain  where 
they  were  until  the  book  was  finished,  then 
to  take  the  precious  manuscript,  and  go  forth 
to  conquer  the  City.  Afterward,  perhaps,  a 
second  honeymoon  journey,  for  both  were 
sorely  in  need  of  rest  and  recreation. 

Elaine  was  going  with  them,  and  Dorothy 


OLove  of  Hnotber  Elaine 


341 


was  to  interview  the  Personage  whose  private 
secretary  she  had  once  been,  and  see  if  that 
position  or  one  fully  as  desirable  could  not  be 
found  for  her  friend.  Also,  Elaine  was  to 
make  her  home  with  the  Carrs.  "I  won't 
let  you  live  in  a  New  York  boarding  house," 
said  Dorothy  warmly,  "as  long  as  we  've  any 
kind  of  a  roof  over  our  heads." 

Dick  had  discovered  that,  as  he  expressed 
it,  he  must  "quit  fooling  and  get  a  job." 
Hitherto,  Mr.  Chester  had  preferred  care-free 
idleness  to  any  kind  of  toil,  and  a  modest  sum, 
carefully  hoarded,  represented  to  Dick  only 
freedom  to  do  as  he  pleased  until  it  gave  out. 
Then  he  began  to  consider  work  again,  but  as 
he  seldom  did  the  same  kind  of  work  twice,  he 
was  not  particularly  proficient  in  any  one  line. 

Still,  Dick  had  no  false  ideas  about  labour. 
At  college  he  had  canvassed  for  subscription 
books,  solicited  life  and  fire  insurance,  swept 
walks,  shovelled  snow,  carried  out  ashes,  and 
even  handled  trunks  for  the  express  company, 
all  with  the  same  cheerful  equanimity.  His 
small  but  certain  income  sufficed  for  his  tuition 
and  other  necessary  expenses,  but  for  board  at 
Uncle  Ebeneezer's  and  a  few  small  luxuries, 
he  was  obliged  to  work. 


Uo  Jf  alee 

•fl&caa 


342 


Ht  tbe  Sign  ot  tbe  3acfe-o'*Xantern 


Ube  love 

of 

Another 
Elaine 


Just  now,  unwonted  ambition  fired  his  soul. 
"  It 's  funny,"  he  mused,  "  what 's  come  over 
me.  I  never  hankered  to  work,  even  in  my 
wildest  moments,  and  yet  I  pine  for  it  this 
minute — even  street-sweeping  would  be  wel 
come,  though  that  sort  of  thing  is  n't  going  to 
be  much  in  my  line  from  now  on.  With  the 
start  uncle  's  given  me,  I  can  surely  get  along 
all  right,  and,  anyhow,  I  've  got  two  hands, 
two  feet,  and  one  head,  all  good  of  their  kind, 
so  there  's  no  call  to  worry." 

Worrying  had  never  been  among  Dick's 
accomplishments,  but  he  was  restless,  and 
eager  for  something  to  do.  He  plunged  into 
furniture-making  with  renewed  energy,  in 
spired  by  the  presence  of  Elaine,  who  with 
her  book  or  embroidery  sat  in  her  low  rocker 
under  the  apple  tree  and  watched  him  at  his 
work. 

Quite  often  she  read  aloud,  sometimes  a 
paragraph,  now  and  then  an  entire  chapter,  to 
which  Dick  submitted  pleasantly.  He  loved 
the  smooth,  soft  cadence  of  Elaine's  low  voice, 
whether  she  read  or  spoke,  so,  in  a  way,  it 
did  not  matter.  But,  one  day,  when  she  had 
read  uninterruptedly  for  over  an  hour,  Dick 
was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 


OLope  of  Hnotber  Elaine 


"  I  say,"  he  began,  when  the  paroxysm  had 
ceased;  "you  like  books,  don't  you?" 

"Indeed  I  do  —  don't  you  ? " 

"Er —  yes,  of  course,  but  say  —  aren't  you 
tired  of  reading  ?  " 

"Not  at  all.  You  needn't  worry  about  me. 
When  I'm  tired,  I'll  stop." 

She  was  pleased  with  his  kindly  thought 
for  her  comfort,  and  thereafter  read  a  great 
deal  by  way  of  reward.  As  for  Dick,  he 
burned  the  midnight  candle  over  many  a  book 
which  he  found  inexpressibly  dull,  and  skil 
fully  led  the  conversation  to  it  the  next  day. 
Soon,  even  Harlan  was  impressed  by  his  wide 
knowledge  of  literature,  though  no  one  noted 
that  about  books  not  in  Uncle  Ebeneezer's 
library,  Dick  knew  nothing  at  all. 

Dorothy  spent  much  of  her  time  in  her  own 
room,  thus  forcing  Dick  and  Elaine  to  depend 
upon  each  other  for  society.  Quite  often  she 
was  lonely,  and  longed  for  their  cheery  chat 
ter,  but  sternly  reminded  herself  that  she  was 
being  sacrificed  in  a  good  cause.  She  built 
many  an  air  castle  for  them  as  well  as  for  her 
self,  furnishing  both,  impartially,  with  Elaine's 
old  mahogany  and  the  simple  furniture  Dick 
was  making  out  of  Uncle  Ebeneezer's  relics. 


344 


Ht  tbe  Sign  of  tbe  3acfc*o'*Xantern 


Cbe  love 

of 

Bnotbec 
£laine 


By  this  time  the  Jack-o'-Lantern  was  nearly 
stripped  of  everything  which  might  prove 
useful,  and  they  were  burning  the  rest  of  it  in 
the  fireplace  at  night.  "Varnished  hard 
wood,"  as  Dick  said,  "makes  a  peach  of  a 
blaze." 

Meanwhile  Harlan  was  labouring  steadfastly 
at  his  manuscript.  The  glowing  fancy  from 
which  the  book  had  sprung  was  quite  gone. 
Still,  as  he  cut,  rearranged,  changed,  inter 
lined,  reconstructed  and  polished,  he  was  not 
wholly  unsatisfied  with  his  work.  "  It  may 
not  be  very  good,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but 
it '  s  the  best  I  can  do  —  now.  The  next  will 
be  better,  I'm  sure."  He  knew,  even  then, 
that  there  would  be  a  "next  one,"  for  the 
eternal  thirst  which  knows  no  quenching  had 
seized  upon  his  inmost  soul. 

Hereafter,  by  an  inexplicably  swift  reversion, 
he  should  see  all  life  as  literature,  and  litera 
ture  as  life.  Friends  and  acquaintances  should 
all  be,  in  his  inmost  consciousness,  ephemeral. 
And  Dorothy  —  dearly  as  he  loved  her,  was 
separated  from  him  as  by  a  veil. 

Still,  as  he  worked,  he  came  gradually  to  a 
better  adjustment,  and  was  very  tenderly  anx 
ious  that  Dorothy  should  see  no  change  in 


U  be  Xove  ot  Bnotber  ^Elaine 


him.  He  had  not  yet  reached  the  point,  how 
ever,  where  he  would  give  it  all  up  for  the  sake 
of  finding  things  real  again,  if  only  for  an  hour. 

Day  after  day,  his  work  went  on.  Some 
times  he  would  spend  an  hour  searching  for  a 
single  word,  rightly  to  express  his  meaning. 
Page  after  page  was  re-copied  upon  the  type 
writer,  for,  with  the  nice  conscience  of  a  good 
workman,  Harlan  desired  a  perfect  manuscript, 
at  least  in  mechanical  details. 

Finally,  he  came  to  the  last  page  and  printed 
"  The  End  "  in  capitals  with  deep  satisfaction. 
"When  it's  sandpapered,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "and  the  dust  blown  off,  I  suppose  it 
will  be  done." 

The  "sandpapering  "  took  a  week  longer. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  Harlan  concluded  that 
any  manuscript  was  done  when  the  writer 
had  read  it  carefully  a  dozen  times  without 
making  a  single  change  in  it.  On  a  Saturday 
night,  just  as  the  hall  clock  was  booming 
eleven,  he  pushed  it  aside,  and  sat  staring 
blankly  at  the  wall  for  a  long  time. 

"  I  don  '  t  know  what  I '  ve  got,"  he  thought, 
"  but  I '  ve  certainly  got  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pages  of  typed  manuscript.  It  should  be  good 
for  something — even  at  space  rates." 


346 


Bt  tbe  Si0n  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


TIbe  love 

of 
Bnotber 

Elaine 


After  dinner,  Sunday,  he  told  them  that  the 
book  was  ready,  and  they  all  went  out  into 
the  orchard.  Dick  was  resigned,  Elaine  pleas 
antly  excited,  Dorothy  eager  and  aflame  with 
triumphant  pride,  Harlan  self-conscious,  and, 
in  a  way,  ashamed. 

As  he  read,  however,  he  forgot  everything 
else.  The  mere  sound  of  the  words  came 
with  caressing  music  to  his  ears.  At  times 
his  voice  wavered  and  his  hands  trembled, 
but  he  kept  on,  until  it  grew  so  dark  that  he 
could  no  longer  see. 

They  went  into  the  house  silently,  and  Dick 
touched  a  match  to  the  fire  already  laid  in  the 
fireplace,  while  Dorothy  lighted  the  candles 
and  the  reading  lamp.  The  afterglow  faded 
and  the  moon  rose,  yet  still  they  rode  with 
Elaine  and  her  company,  through  mountain 
passes  and  over  blossoming  fields,  past  many 
dangers  and  strange  happenings,  and  ever 
away  from  the  Castle  of  Content. 

Harlan's  deep,  vibrant  voice,  now  stern, 
now  tender,  gave  new  meaning  to  his  work. 
His  secret  belief  in  it  gave  it  a  beauty  which 
no  one  else  would  ever  see.  Dorothy,  listen 
ing  so  intently  that  it  was  almost  pain,  never 
took  her  eyes  from  his  face.  In  that  hour,  if 


Ube  Xove  of  Hnotber  Elaine 


347 


Harlan  could  have  known  it,  her  woman's 
soul  was  kneeling  before  his,  naked  and 
unashamed. 

Dick  privately  considered  the  whole  thing 
more  or  less  of  a  nuisance,  but  the  candle 
light  touched  Elaine's  golden  hair  lovingly, 
and  the  glow  from  the  fire  seemed  to  rest 
caressingly  upon  her  face.  All  along,  he  saw 
a  clear  resemblance  between  his  Elaine  and 
the  lady  of  the  book,  also,  more  keenly,  a 
closer  likeness  between  himself  and  the  fool 
who  rode  at  her  side. 

When  Harlan  came  to  the  song  which  the 
fool  had  written,  and  which  he  had  so  shame 
lessly  revised  and  read  aloud  at  the  table,  Dick 
seriously  considered  a  private  and  permanent 
departure,  like  the  nocturnal  vanishing  of  Mr. 
Perkins,  without  even  a  poem  for  farewell. 

Elaine,  lost  in  the  story,  was  heedless  of  her 
surroundings.  It  was  only  at  the  last  chapter 
that  she  became  conscious  of  self  at  all.  Then, 
suddenly,  in  her  turn,  she  perceived  a  parallel, 
and  quivered  painfully  with  a  new  emotion. 

"Some  one,  perchance,"  mused  the  Lady 
Elaine,  "whose  beauty  my  eyes  alone  should 
perceive,  whose  -valour  only  I  should  guess 
before  there  was  need  to  test  it.  Some  one 


Clear  IRe. 
semblance 


348 


Ht  tbe  Sian  of  tbe  3acfe*o'*Xantern 


tTbe  love 
of 

Hnotbcr 
JElame 


great  of  heart  and  clean  of  mind,  in  whose 
eyes  there  should  never  be  that  which  makes  a 
woman  ashamed.  Some  one  fine-fibred  and 
strong-souled,  not  above  tenderness  when  a 
maid  was  tired.  One  who  should  make  a 
shield  of  his  love,  to  keep  her  not  only  from 
the  great  hurts  but  from  the  little  ones  as  well, 
and  yet  with  whom  she  might  fare  onward, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  God  meant  mates 
should  fare." 

Like  the  other  Elaine,  she  saw  who  had 
served  her  secretly,  asking  for  no  recognition; 
who  had  always  kept  watch  over  her  so  un 
obtrusively  and  quietly  that  she  never  guessed 
it  till  now.  Like  many  another  woman, 
Elaine  had  dreamed  of  her  Prince  as  a  para 
gon  of  beauty  and  perfection,  with  uncon 
scious  vanity  deeming  such  an  one  her  true 
mate.  Now  her  story-book  lover  had  gone 
for  ever,  and  in  his  place  was  Dick;  sunny- 
hearted,  mischievous,  whistling,  clear-eyed 
Dick,  who  had  laughed  and  joked  with  her 
all  Summer,  and  now — must  never  know. 

In  a  fierce  agony  of  shame,  she  wondered 
if  he  had  already  guessed  her  secret — if  she 
had  betrayed  it  to  him  before  she  was  con 
scious  of  it  herself;  if  that  was  why  he  had 


%ox>e  ot  Hnotber  Elaine 


349 


been  so  kind.  Harlan  was  reading  the  last 
page,  and  Elaine  shaded  her  face  with  her 
hand,  determined,  at  all  costs,  to  avoid  Dick, 
and  to  go  away  to-morrow,  somewhere, 
anywhere. 

But  Prince  Bernard  did  not  hear,  read 
Harlan,  nor  see  the  outstretched  hand,  for 
Elaine  was  in  his  arms  for  Ihe  first  time, 
her  sweet  lips  close  on  his.  "My  Prince,  Oh, 
my  Prince,"  she  murmured,  -when  at  length 
he  set  her  free;  "my  eyes  did  not  see  but  my 
heart  knew!" 

So  ended  the  Quest  of  the  Lady  Elaine. 

The  last  page  of  the  manuscript  fluttered, 
face  downward,  upon  the  table,  and  Dorothy 
wiped  her  eyes.  Elaine's  mouth  was  parched, 
but  she  staggered  to  her  feet,  knowing  that 
she  must  say  some  conventional  words  of 
congratulation  to  Harlan,  then  go  to  her  own 
room. 

Blindly,  she  put  out  her  hand,  trying  to 
speak;  then,  for  a  single  illuminating  instant, 
her  eyes  looked  into  Dick's. 

With  a  little  cry,  Elaine  fled  from  the  room, 
overwhelmed  with  shame.  In  a  twinkling, 
she  was  out  of  the  house,  and  flying  toward 
the  orchard  as  fast  as  her  light  feet  would 


IHumina* 
tion 


35° 


at  tbe  Sf0n  of  tbe  $acf>o'*Xantern 


Cbe  love 

of 
Bitotber 

Elaine 


carry  her,  her  heart  beating  wildly  in  her 
breast. 

By  the  sure  instinct  of  a  lover,  Dick  knew 
that  his  hour  had  come.  He  dropped  out  of  the 
window  and  overtook  her  just  as  she  reached 
her  little  rocking-chair,  which,  damp  with  the 
Autumn  dew,  was  still  under  the  apple  tree. 

"  Elaine!  "  cried  Dick,  crushing  her  into  his 
arms,  all  the  joy  of  youth  and  love  in  his 
voice.  "Elaine!  My  Elaine!" 

"The  audience,"  remarked  Harlan,  in  an 
unnatural  tone,  "appears  to  have  gone.  Only 
my  faithful  wife  stands  by  me.'' 

"Oh,  Harlan,"  answered  Dorothy,  with  a 
swift  rush  of  feeling,  "  you  '11  never  know  till 
your  dying  day  how  proud  and  happy  I  am. 
It 's  the  very  beautifullest  book  that  anybody 
ever  wrote,  and  I  'm  so  glad!  Mrs.  Shake 
speare  could  never  have  been  half  as  pleased 

as  I  am!  I ,"  but  the  rest  was  lost,  for 

Dorothy  was  in  his  arms,  crying  her  heart 
out  for  sheer  joy. 

"There,  there,"  said  Harlan,  patting  her 
shoulders  awkwardly,  and  rubbing  his  rough 
cheek  against  her  tear- wet  face;  "it  was  n't 
meant  to  make  anybody  cry." 


TTbe  Xove  of  another  Elaine 


351 


"Why  can't  I  cry  if  I  want  to?"  demanded 
Dorothy,  resentfully,  between  sobs.  Harlan's 
voice  was  far  from  even  and  his  own  eyes 
were  misty  as  he  answered  :  "Because  you 
are  my  own  darling  girl  and  I  love  you,  that 's 
why." 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  for  a  long  time, 
looking  into  the  embers  of  the  dying  fire,  in 
the  depths  of  that  wedded  silence  which 
has  no  need  of  words.  The  portraits  of  Uncle 
Ebeneezer  and  Aunt  Rebecca  seemed  fully  in 
accord,  and,  though  mute,  eloquent  with 
understanding. 

"  He  'd  be  so  proud,"  whispered  Dorothy, 
looking  up  at  the  stern  face  over  the  mantel, 
"if  he  knew  what  you  had  done  here  in  his 
house.  He  loved  books,  and  now,  because  of 
his  kindness,  you  can  always  write  them. 
You  '11  never  have  to  go  back  on  the  paper 
again." 

Harlan  smiled  reminiscently,  for  the  hurry 
ing,  ceaseless  grind  of  the  newspaper  office 
was,  indeed,  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  dim, 
quiet  room  was  his,  not  the  battle-ground  of 
the  street.  Still,  as  he  knew,  the  smell  of 
printer's  ink  in  his  nostrils  would  be  like  the 
sound  of  a  bugle  to  an  old  cavalry  horse,  and 


of  tdor&a 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


Un; 


